that new poem from the French; I am sure you will like it."

"Thank you," said Sibyl, smiling. "Pray be seated, Mr. Marr."

But the enthusiasm died away, the conversation languished, and Mr.
Leslie soon rose to take leave. Then Sibyl stepped forward, and
accompanied him part way down the garden-walk, pausing for a few
moments earnest conversation before he said "good night."

"Now what made her do that?" thought Aunt Faith, as she tried to keep
up a conversation with the languid Mr. Marr; "does she like Mr. Leslie
better than she is willing to acknowledge?"

But Sibyl returned to her place on the piazza, and soon entered into
an animated discussion of the last volume of poems, in which Aunt
Faith's old-fashioned ideas found little to interest them.

"Well, young people," she said pleasantly, after half an hour of
patient listening, "I _am_ afraid I do not appreciate modern poetry.
I am behind the times, I suppose; but I really like to understand what
a poet means, and, now-a-days, that is almost impossible."

"The mystery of poetry is its highest charm," said Graham Marr; "true
poetry is always unintelligible."

"Then I fear I am not poetical, Mr. Marr. But I am, as you see, frank
enough to acknowledge my deficiencies, and, if you will excuse me, I
will go into the sitting-room and finish some work that lies in my
basket."