'And so it is,' replied Margaret, eagerly. 'All the other places
in England that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking,
after the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in a poem--in
one of Tennyson's poems. But I won't try and describe it any
more. You would only laugh at me if I told you what I think of
it--what it really is.'

'Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very
resolved. Well, then, tell me that which I should like still
better to know what the parsonage is like.'

'Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its
charm into words.'

'I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret.

'How?' said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him.
'I did not know I was.'

'Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me
what Helstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home,
though I have told you how much I want to hear about both, the
latter especially.'

'But indeed I cannot tell you about my own home. I don't quite
think it is a thing to be talked about, unless you knew it.'

'Well, then'--pausing for a moment--'tell me what you do there.
Here you read, or have lessons, or otherwise improve your mind,