This was a beautiful morning in May, and there, sitting under the great cedar-tree on the lawn, all the sweet-smelling wind wafting luscious odors from jasmine and honeysuckle, the brilliant sun shining down on them, he had been reading to her the notes of a speech by which he hoped to do wonders; she had suggested some alterations, and, as he found, improvements; then she sat silently musing. After some time she startled him with the question: "What is Lady Marion like?" "Did you not see her," he replied, "on the first evening we were at the opera? She was by my side, and you saw me. Nay, I remember that she told me you were looking at her, and that your eyes magnetized hers." "I remember the evening," said Leone sadly, "but I do not remember seeing my lady. I--I saw nothing but you. Tell me what she is like. Is she very beautiful?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was very wistful. "Yes; she is very fine and queenly," he replied; "she is very quiet, gentle, and amiable. Would you like to see her, Leone?" A sudden flame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died away. "Yes, I should like just once to see her. She is very clever, is she not?" "Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty airs to pretty words." Leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face. "Does she? Ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music another has written." "I do not think so," he replied. "If you are thinking of Lady Marion in comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight and sunlight, water and wine. She has the grace and calm of repose. You have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. She quiets a man's heart. You stir every pulse in it. She soothes one into forgetfulness of life. You brace and animate and brighten. You cannot compare the two characters, because they are quite different. You are smiling. What amuses you?" "Nothing. I was not amused, Lord Chandos. I was thinking, and the thought I smiled over was not amusing." "What was it?" "I was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace, gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. I read some lines yesterday that have haunted me ever since. Shall I repeat them to you?" "It is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "I shall be only too delighted." Her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always did under the influence of noble words. Her voice was sweeter than that of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener as she recited this little poem: "While roses are so red, While lilies are so white, Shall a woman exalt her face Because it gives delight? She's not so sweet as a rose, A lily is straighter than she, And if she were as red or white, She'd be but one of three.