"Yes; and it is precisely for that reason that I don't choose to hear it. There is quite enough of the grim and hideous in reality without hunting it up in pages of fiction. When I read I desire to relax my mind, not put it on the rack, as your favorite books invariably do. Absolutely, Beulah, after listening to some of your pet authors, I feel as if I had been standing on my head. You need not look so coolly incredulous; it is a positive fact. As for that 'Ancient Mariner' you are so fond of, I am disposed to take the author's own opinion of it, as expressed in those lines addressed to himself." "I suppose, then, you fancy 'Christabel' as little as the other, seeing that it is a tale of witchcraft. How would you relish that grand anthem to nature's God, written in the vale of Chamouni?" "I never read it," answered Clara very quietly. "What? Never read 'Sibylline Leaves'? Why, I will wager my head that you have parsed from them a thousand times! Never read that magnificent hymn before sunrise, in the midst of glaciers and snow- crowned, cloud-piercing peaks? Listen, then; and if you don't feel like falling upon your knees, you have not a spark of poetry in your soul!" She drew the lamp close to her, and read aloud. Her finely modulated voice was peculiarly adapted to the task, and her expressive countenance faithfully depicted the contending emotions which filled her mind as she read. Clara listened with pleased interest, and, when the short poem was concluded, said: "Thank you; it is beautiful. I have often seen extracts from it. Still, there is a description of Mont Blanc in 'Manfred' which I believe I like quite as well." "What? That witch fragment?" "Yes."