“I mean to give you a large dose of my brilliant conversation, and, lest it becomes too exciting, to season it with a little reading, out of something that neither of you take the smallest interest in, and will be able to go to sleep over properly. Poetry--most likely.” “Some of yours?” She coloured deeply. “Hush, papa, I thought you had forgotten--you said it was 'nonsense,' you know.” “Very likely it was. But I mean to give it another reading some day. Never mind--nobody heard.” So she writes poetry. I always knew she was very clever, besides being well-educated. Talented women--modern Corinnes--my impression of them was rather repulsive. But she--that soft, shy girl, with her gay simplicity, her meek, household ways-- I said, if Miss Theodora were going to read, perhaps she might remember she had once promised to improve my mind with a course of German literature. There was a book about a gentleman of my own name--Max--Max something or other-- “Piccolomini. You have not forgotten him! What a memory you have for little things.” She thought so! I said, if she considered a poor doctor, accustomed to deal more with bodies than souls, could comprehend the sort of books she seemed so fond of, I would like to hear about Max Piccolomini. “Certainly. Only--” “You think I could not understand it.” “I never thought any such thing,” she cried out in her old abrupt way, and went out of the room immediately. The book she fetched was a little dainty one. Perhaps it had been a gift. I asked to look at it. “Can you read German?” “Not a line.” For my few words of conversational foreign tongues have been learnt orally, the better to communicate with stray patients in hospitals. I told her so. “I am very ignorant, as you must have long since found out, Miss Theodora.” She said nothing, but began to read. At first translating line by line; then saying a written translation would be less trouble, she fetched one. It was in her handwriting--probably her own doing. No doubt every one, except such an unlearned ass as myself, is familiar with the story--historical, I believe she said--how a young soldier, Max Piccolomini, fell in love with the daughter of his General Wallenstein, who, heading an insurrection, wished the youth to join in-promising him the girl's hand. There is one scene where the father tempts, and brings the daughter to tempt him, by hope of this bliss, to turn rebel; but the young man is firm--the girl, too, when he appeals to her, bids him keep to his duty, and renounce his love. It is a case such as may have happened--might happen in these days--were modern men and women capable of such attachments. Something of the sort of love upon which Dallas used to theorise when we were boys, always winding up with his favourite verse--how strange that it should come back to my mind now:--= ```"I could not love thee, dear, so much, ```Loved I not honour more."=