me. I find though they are much admired by the clergy of the better
sort, and by certain religiously-disposed people, to whom thinking is
distasteful or impossible. Because they cannot definitely believe,
they fling themselves with all the more fervour upon these cloudy
Wordsworthian phrases, and imagine they see something solid in the
coloured fog.'

It was now growing dark and a few heavy drops of rain began to fall,
but in a minute or two they ceased. Frank, contrary to his usual
wont, was silent. There was something undiscovered in Madge, a
region which he had not visited and perhaps could not enter. She
discerned in an instant what she had done, and in an instant
repented. He had taken so much pains with a long piece of poetry for
her sake: was not that better than agreement in a set of
propositions? Scores of persons might think as she thought about the
ode, who would not spend a moment in doing anything to gratify her.
It was delightful also to reflect that Frank imagined she would
sympathise with anything written in that temper. She recalled what
she herself had said when somebody gave Clara a copy in 'Parian' of a
Greek statue, a thing coarse in outline and vulgar. Clara was about
to put it in a cupboard in the attic, but Madge had pleaded so
pathetically that the donor had in a measure divined what her sister
loved, and had done her best, although she had made a mistake, that
finally the statue was placed on the bedroom mantelpiece. Madge's
heart overflowed, and Frank had never attracted her so powerfully as
at that moment. She took his hand softly in hers.

'Frank,' she murmured, as she bent her head towards him, 'it is
really a lovely poem.'