to do what I had to do, for I did. There was just one thing I liked--the
poetry we had to learn once a week. But I suppose gentlemen count that
silly--don't they?"

"On the contrary, my dear, I would make that liking of yours the foundation
of all your work. Besides, I think poetry the grandest thing God has given
us--though perhaps you and I might not quite agree about what poetry was
poetry enough to be counted an especial gift of God. Now, what poetry do
you like best?"

"Mrs. Hemans's, I think, papa."

"Well, very well, to begin with. 'There is,' as Mr. Carlyle said to a
friend of mine--'There is a thin vein of true poetry in Mrs. Hemans.' But
it is time you had done with thin things, however good they may be. Most
people never get beyond spoon-meat--in this world, at least, and they
expect nothing else in the world to come. I must take you in hand myself,
and see what I can do for you. It is wretched to see capable enough
creatures, all for want of a little guidance, bursting with admiration of
what owes its principal charm to novelty of form, gained at the cost of
expression and sense. Not that that applies to Mrs. Hemans. She is simple
enough, only diluted to a degree. But I hold that whatever mental food you
take should be just a little too strong for you. That implies trouble,
necessitates growth, and involves delight."

"I sha'n't mind how difficult it is if you help me, papa. But it is
anything but satisfactory to go groping on without knowing what you are
about."

I ought to have mentioned that Constance had been at school for two years,