"Well, not this, at all events," says Miss Kavanagh, placing the dainty copy of "The Muses of Mayfair," she has been reading on the rustic table in front of her. "Why not that one? What is it?" asks Tommy, staring at the book. "Nothing you would like. Horrid stuff. Only poetry." "What's poetry?" "Oh, nonsense, Tommy, you know very well what poetry is. Your hymns are poetry." This she considers will put an end to all desire for the book in question. It is a clever and skilful move, but it fails signally. There is silence for a moment while Tommy cogitates, and then---- "Are those hymns?" demands he, pointing at the discarded volume. "N-o, not exactly." This is scarcely disingenuous, and Miss Kavanagh has the grace to blush a little. She is the further discomposed in that she becomes aware presently that Tommy sees through her perfectly. "Well, what are they?" asks he. "Oh--er--well--just poetry, you know." "I don't," says Tommy, flatly, who is nothing if not painfully truthful. "Let me hear them." He pauses here and regards her with a searching eye. "They"--with careful forethought--"they aren't lessons, are they?" "No; they are not lessons," says his aunt, laughing. "But you won't like them for all that. If you are athirst for literature, get me one of your own books, and I will read 'Jack the Giant Killer' to you." "I'm sick of him," says Tommy, most ungratefully. That tremendous hero having filled up many an idle hour of his during his short lifetime. "No," nestling closer to her. "Go on with your poetry one!" "You would hate it. It is worse than 'Jack,'" says she. "Let me hear it," says Tommy, persistently. "Well," says Miss Kavanagh, with a sigh, "if you will have it, at least, don't interrupt." She has tried very hard to get rid of him, but, having failed in so signal a fashion, she gives herself up with an admirable resignation to the inevitable. "What would I do that for?" asks Tommy, rather indignantly. "I don't know, I'm sure. But I thought I'd warn you," says she, wisely precautious. "Now, sit down there," pointing to the seat beside her; "and when you feel you have had enough of it, say so at once." "That would be interrupting," says Tommy, the Conscientious. "Well, I give you leave to interrupt so far," says Joyce, glad to leave him a loop-hole that may insure his departure before Felix comes. "But no further--mind that." "Oh, I'm minding!" says Tommy, impatiently. "Go on. Why don't you begin?" Miss Kavanagh, taking up her book once more, opens it at random. All its contents are sweetmeats of the prettiest, so she is not driven to a choice. She commences to read in a firm, soft voice:-- "The wind and the beam loved the rose, And the roses loved one: For who recks the----" "What's that?" says Tommy. "What's what?" "You aren't reading it right, are you?" "Certainly I am. Why?" "I don't believe a beam of wood could love anything," says Tommy; "it's too heavy."