essayists, no novelists, more recent than the Johnsonian age. Neither in
the lawyer's library were to be found any law books; no, nor the
pamphlets and parliamentary volumes that should have spoken of the once
eager politician. But there were superb copies of the ancient classics.
French and Italian authors were not wanting, nor such of the English as
have withstood the test of time. The larger portions of the shelves
seemed, however, devoted to philosophical works. Here alone was novelty
admitted, the newest essays on science, or the best editions of old works
thereon. Lionel at length made his choice,--a volume of the "Faerie
Queene." Coffee was served; at a later hour tea. The clock struck ten.
Darrell laid down his book.

"Mr. Fairthorn, the flute!"

From the recess a mutter; and presently--the musician remaining still
hidden--there came forth the sweetest note,--so dulcet, so plaintive!
Lionel's ear was ravished. The music suited well with the enchanted page
through which his fancy had been wandering dreamlike,--the flute with the
"Faerie Queene." As the air flowed liquid on, Lionel's eyes filled with
tears. He did not observe that Darrell was intently watching him. When
the music stopped, he turned aside to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Somehow or other, what with the poem, what with the flute, his thoughts
had wandered far, far hence to the green banks and blue waves of the
Thames,--to Sophy's charming face, to her parting childish gift! And
where was she now? Whither passing away, after so brief a holiday, into
the shadows of forlorn life? Darrell's bell-like voice smote his ear.

"Spenser; you love him! Do you write poetry?" "No, sir: I only feel
it!"