"I am no judge of poetry, but it seems to me that if he was content, he need not say so much about it." "There is something in what you say. But there was no show-off in Claudius, I think. He was a most simple-hearted, amiable man, to all appearance. A man of business, too--manager of a bank at Altona, in the beginning of the present century. But as I have not given a favourable impression of him, allow me to repeat a little bit of innocent humour of his--a cradle song--which I like fully better than the other." "Most certainly; it is only fair," answered the colonel. "Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure; Thou art thy father's miniature; That art thou, though thy father goes And swears that thou hast not his nose. A moment gone, he looked at thee, My little budding rose, And said--No doubt there's much of me, But he has not my nose. I think myself, it is too small, But it is _his_ nose after all; For if thy nose his nose be not, Whence came the nose that thou hast got? Sleep, baby, sleep; don't half-way doze: To tease me--that's his part. No matter if you've not his nose, So be you've got his heart!" CHAPTER VI. THE BROKEN SWORDS. Every one liked this, except Mrs. Cathcart, who opined, with her usual smile, that it was rather silly. "Well, I hope a father may be silly sometimes," said the curate, with a glance at his wife, which she did not acknowledge. "At least I fear I should be silly enough, if I were a father." No more remarks were made, and as it was now quite time to begin the story, Mr. Armstrong took his place, and the rest took their places. He began at once. "THE BROKEN SWORDS. "The eyes of three, two sisters and a brother, gazed for the last time on a great pale-golden star, that followed the sun down the steep west. It went down to arise again; and the brother about to depart might return, but more than the usual doubt hung upon his future. For between the white dresses of the sisters, shone his scarlet coat and golden sword-knot, which he had put on for the first time, more to gratify their pride than his own vanity. The brightening moon, as if prophetic of a future memory, had already begun to dim the scarlet and the gold, and to give them a pale, ghostly hue. In her thoughtful light the whole group seemed more like a meeting in the land of shadows, than a parting in the substantial earth.--But which should be called the land of realities?--the region where appearance, and space, and time drive between, and stop the flowing currents of the soul's speech? or that region where heart meets heart, and appearance has become the slave to utterance, and space and time are forgotten?