‘Mrs. Webber is a poetess,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘My daughter is very much pleased with your poem, “The Lonely Heart,” Mrs. Webber. It is truly affecting.’ ‘I was certain she would like it,’ answered Mrs. Webber; ‘yet it is not so good as the “Lonely Soul.” The first I wrote with a pen dipped in simple tears, the other with a pen dipped in tears of blood. What a delightful subject Miss C---- would make for a poem--not a short poem, but a volume.’ ‘There may be some sorrows which lie too deep for poetry,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘Too deep!’ cried Mrs. Webber. ‘Yes, in the sense that there are thoughts which lie too deep for tears,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘That line by Longfellow I never could understand,’ said Mrs. Webber. ‘It is by Wordsworth,’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee. ‘Too deep!’ cried Mrs. Webber again; ‘why, I should have imagined that nothing could be too deep or too high for poetry. Take Browning; doesn’t he go deep? Take Shelley; didn’t he go high? Over and over again they disappear, and what’s a surer sign of a great poet than to sink or soar out of sight? Any simple fellow can make himself understood. The sublime in writing is quite another affair. Don’t you agree with me, Miss C----?’ ‘I am sorry I am not able to understand you,’ I answered. I observed Mrs. Lee give Mrs. Webber a look. The latter cried, ‘Oh yes, I now remember. And yet, do you know, as I was telling my husband not an hour ago, I cannot see that it is very dreadful to be without memory. I mean to say, that it cannot be very dreadful to forget one’s past. To be able to recollect enough to go on with is really all one wants. The condition of a mind that cannot look back, but that can look forward, must surely be romantically delightful; because forward everything is fresh; all the flowers are springing, there are no graves; but behind--for my part, I hate looking back.’ Mrs. Lee muttered low for my ear only: ‘This lady is no poetess.’ ‘You will by and by let me ask you many questions I hope, Miss C----,’ exclaimed Mrs. Webber; ‘I should love to exactly realise your state of mind. Of course I am highly imaginative, but to me there is something very beautiful in your situation. You remember nothing save what has happened to you upon the sea, and therefore you may most truly be considered a genuine daughter of old ocean, as much so as if you had risen out of the foam like some ancient goddess whose name I forget. I shall, perhaps, call my poem about you “The Bride of the Deep.” I might imagine that old ocean having fallen in love with you had erased your memory of the land, that you shall know him only and be wholly his. What do you think of that idea, Mrs. Lee?’ and she turned her light blue eyes with a sparkle in them upon my companion. ‘I think our friend’s sorrow is of too solemn a character to make a book of,’ answered Mrs. Lee.