not be the slightest danger of that, especially after this inestimable praise from Zenobia,” said I, smiling, and blushing, no doubt, with excess of pleasure.

“I hope, on the contrary, now to produce something that shall really deserve to be called poetry, — true, strong, natural, and sweet, as is the life which we are going to lead, — something that shall have the notes of wild birds twittering through it, or a strain like the wind anthems in the woods, as the case may be.”

“Is it irksome to you to hear your own verses sung?” asked Zenobia, with a gracious smile. “If so, I am very sorry, for you will certainly hear me singing them sometimes, in the summer evenings.”

“Of all things,” answered I,