A mother rejoices in the proper selection of a husband by her daughter, and Mrs. Greydon, one of those good, wholesome souls, believed in whatever her husband proposed, so that when the Doctor informed his wife of Barclugh’s intentions, she simply said: “Thou knowest best what is right, William;” and was satisfied to rest on his wisdom. Mollie was utterly oblivious to the ordeal in store for her on this particular evening. She was more witchy and poked more lively sallies at Barclugh during the dinner than she ever had before on any one occasion, but Barclugh blushed and took the pleasantries good-naturedly. Yet Mollie noticed that she was doing most of the talking, and wondered to herself why everybody was so sober and she so lively. Nevertheless, her buoyancy of spirits could not be downed and she continued her play of wit and humor throughout the dinner. When the dinner was finished, Mollie said: “I have the prettiest ode of Horace that I was translating before dinner, and I must have papa and mamma and you, Mr. Barclugh, come to the library and I will read it to you.” So Barclugh offered Mollie his arm, and Dr. Greydon his to his wife, and the four went up the great staircase to the library. Mollie went to the book-shelves, while the others seated themselves on the carved oak settles, facing each other before the great fireplace. Mollie took the edition of Horace and seated herself at the head of the large library table and began to read: INTACTIS OPULENTIOR “Though India’s virgin mine, And wealth of Araby be thine; Though thy wave-circled palaces Usurp the Tyrrhene and Apulian seas, When on thy devoted head The iron hand of Fate has laid The symbols of eternal doom, What power shall loose the fetters of the dead? What hope dispel the terrors of the tomb? “Happy the nomad tribes whose wains Drag their rude huts o’er Scythian plains; Happier the Gaetan horde To whom unmeasured fields afford Abundant harvests, pastures free: For one short year they toil, Then claim once more their liberty, And yield to other hands the unexhausted soil. “The tender-hearted stepdame there Nurtures with all a mother’s care The orphan babe: no wealthy bride Insults her lord, or yields her heart To the sleek suitor’s glozing art. The maiden’s dower is purity, Her parent’s worth, her womanly pride, To hate the sin, to scorn the lie, Chastely to live, or, if dishonored, die. “Breathes there a patriot, brave and strong, Would right his erring country’s wrong, Would heal her wounds and quell her rage? Let him, with noble daring, first Curb Faction’s tyranny accurst, So may some future age Grave on his bust with pious hand, The Father of his Native Land, Virtue yet living we despise, Adore it, lost and vanished from our eyes.