She confessed that she did not. She had fancied that he was not quite--
she hardly thought that ladies did read his works to any extent.
"Cowper was my favourite poet in my youth," she said, "and I was
very fond of Mrs. Hemans and Mrs. Barbauld. Their poetry is at once
elegant and elevated in tone and spirit. I hope you agree with me,
Doctor Strong?"

"I don't know!" said Geoffrey, "I never read 'em. But Shelley,
Miss Vesta! you love Shelley, I'm sure? He would have loved you so,
you know."

Miss Vesta's quiet face showed a little trouble. "Mr. Shelley's
poetry," she said, hesitatingly, "is very beautiful. He was--some
one I once knew was devoted to Mr. Shelley's poetry. He--used to
read it to me. But Sister Phoebe thought Mr. Shelley's religious
views were--a--not what one would wish, and she objected to my
following the study."

"He wrote about moths, too," said Geoffrey, abstractedly. "The
desire of the moth for the star, you know. Those things make you
feel queer when they come to you out here, with all these lights and
dusks and smells. Now I wonder why!"

Miss Vesta looked at him kindly. "Perhaps there is some tender
association," she said, gently, "such as is natural at your age, my
dear young friend."

"Not an association!" said Geoffrey, stoutly. "Never had one in my
life. It's only in a general way. These things stir one up, somehow;
it's a form of mental intoxication. Do you think a man could get