himself was rather rich, both in the best editions of Greek and Latin
classics and in early English literature. Kenelm was much pleased
with the scholarly vicar, especially when Mr. Emlyn began to speak
about Mrs. Cameron and Lily. Of the first he said, "She is one of
those women in whom quiet is so predominant that it is long before one
can know what undercurrents of good feeling flow beneath the unruffled
surface. I wish, however, she was a little more active in the
management and education of her niece,--a girl in whom I feel a very
anxious interest, and whom I doubt if Mrs. Cameron understands.
Perhaps, however, only a poet, and a very peculiar sort of poet, can
understand her: Lily Mordaunt is herself a poem."

"I like your definition of her," said Kenelm. "There is certainly
something about her which differs much from the prose of common life."

"You probably know Wordsworth's lines:


"' . . . and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty, born of murmuring sound,
Shall pass into her face.'


"They are lines that many critics have found unintelligible; but Lily
seems like the living key to them."

Kenelm's dark face lighted up, but he made no answer.