This went on for a long time after the period to which I am now more immediately confined. Every time they stopped to rest from their rambles or games—as often, in fact, as they sat down alone, Harry’s constant request was: “Now, Mr. Sutherland, mightn’t we have something more about the Romans?” And Mr. Sutherland gave him something more. But all this time he never uttered the word—Latin. CHAPTER V. LARCH AND OTHER HUNTING. For there is neither buske nor hay In May, that it n’ill shrouded bene, And it with newé leavés wrene; These woodés eke recoveren grene, That drie in winter ben to sene, And the erth waxeth proud withall, For swoté dewes that on it fall, And the poore estate forget, In which that winter had it set: And than becomes the ground so proude, That it wol have a newé shroude, And maketh so queint his robe and faire, That it hath hewes an hundred paire, Of grasse and floures, of Ind and Pers, And many hewés full divers: That is the robe I mean, ywis, Through which the ground to praisen is. CHAUCER’S translation of the Romaunt of the Rose. So passed the three days of rain. After breakfast the following morning, Hugh went to find Harry, according to custom, in the library. He was reading. “What are you reading, Harry?” asked he. “A poem,” said Harry; and, rising as before, he brought the book to Hugh. It was Mrs. Hemans’s Poems. “You are fond of poetry, Harry.” “Yes, very.” “Whose poems do you like best?” “Mrs. Hemans’s, of course. Don’t you think she is the best, sir?” “She writes very beautiful verses, Harry. Which poem are you reading now?” “Oh! one of my favourites—The Voice of Spring.” “Who taught you to like Mrs. Hemans?” “Euphra, of course.” “Will you read the poem to me?” Harry began, and read the poem through, with much taste and evident enjoyment; an enjoyment which seemed, however, to spring more from the music of the thought and its embodiment in sound, than from sympathy with the forms of nature called up thereby. This was shown by his mode of reading, in which the music was everything, and the sense little or nothing. When he came to the line, “And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,” he smiled so delightedly, that Hugh said: “Are you fond of the larch, Harry?” “Yes, very.” “Are there any about here?” “I don’t know. What is it like?” “You said you were fond of it.” “Oh, yes; it is a tree with beautiful tassels, you know. I think I should like to see one. Isn’t it a beautiful line?”