discouraged him--that would have been the most merciful way--if you
knew the poetry was bad. Now, he will go on building all sorts of
castles in the air on your praise, and sooner or later they will come
tumbling about his ears--just to gratify your passion for saying
pleasant things to people."

"I wish you had a passion for saying pleasant things to me, my dear,"
suggested her husband evasively.

"Oh, a nice time I should have!"

"I don't know about _your_ nice time, but I feel pretty certain
of my own. How do you know--Oh, _do_ get up, you implacable
cripple!" he broke off to the lame mare he was driving, and pulled
at the reins.

"Don't saw her mouth!" cried Mrs. Sewell.

"Well, let her get up, then, and I won't. I don't like to saw her
mouth; but I have to do something when you come down on me with your
interminable consequences. I dare say the boy will never think of my
praise again. And besides, as I was saying when this animal
interrupted me with her ill-timed attempts at grazing, how do you
know that I knew the poetry was bad?"

"How? By the sound of your voice. I could tell you were dishonest in
the dark, David."

"Perhaps the boy knew that I was dishonest too," suggested Sewell.