white and the white into black before he makes the assertion, which is
then true. The fool changes, and is a liar; the clever man makes the
colours change, and is a genius. But this is not for your young years
yet, Lucy."

"But I can't see the necessity of seeming to agree with people," said
Lucy, simply; "surely they would be just as well pleased if you differed
from them civilly and with respect?"

"No, Lucy," said Brandon, still sneering; "to be liked, it is not
necessary to be anything but compliant. Lie, cheat, make every word a
snare, and every act a forgery; but never contradict. Agree with people,
and they make a couch for you in their hearts. You know the story of
Dante and the buffoon. Both were entertained at the court of the vain
pedant, who called himself Prince Scaliger,--the former poorly, the
latter sumptuously. 'How comes it,' said the buffoon to the poet, 'that
I am so rich and you so poor?' 'I shall be as rich as you,' was the
stinging and true reply, 'whenever I can find a patron as like myself as
Prince Scaliger is like you!'"

"Yet my birds," said Lucy, caressing the goldfinch, which nestled to her
bosom, "are not like me, and I love them. Nay, I often think I could
love those better who differ from me the most. I feel it so in books,--
when, for instance, I read a novel or a play; and you, uncle, I like
almost in proportion to my perceiving in myself nothing in common with
you."

"Yes," said Brandon, "you have in common with me a love for old stories
of Sir Hugo and Sir Rupert, and all the other 'Sirs' of our mouldered and
bygone race. So you shall sing me the ballad about Sir John de Brandon,