“I am glad you like him, my love,” he replied, carelessly. “I was rather afraid you might object to a third person in the house. He is a most admirable young man. For hunting out a reference or a quotation, he is, I think, unrivalled. I only hope I shall be able to keep him till my book is finished; but that will be a long time, Helen, a very long time--if I live to finish it at all.” “Dear, dear father,” murmured the girl, tenderly; and then she continued, with some appearance of alarm, “Do you think Mr. Thorburn wishes to leave us?” “No, my dear, I have no reason to think that. But he is very young, you know; and this must be a dull kind of life for a young man.” “And yet I am sure Mr. Thorburn is not unhappy. He had only just lost his mother, you know, when he came to us; and of course the memory of that loss makes him thoughtful and melancholy sometimes. But I am sure he is quite content to lead our quiet life, papa, and that he takes a very deep interest in your book. He told me the other day that he cannot venture to look forward to the end of that book; it seems to him like looking forward to the end of his life.” “It is, indeed, an interesting subject, my love,” replied M. de Bergerac, with complacency, “and an almost inexhaustible one--the history of superstition: a mighty record, a vast survey, embracing the length and breadth of this earth, from the monstrous temples of the East to the classic shrines of the West--from the altar of the Carthaginian Æsculapius to the funeral pyre of the Scandinavian Balder. I am much pleased to think the young man likes his work. He is very clever.” “Is he not clever, papa? He wrote a little poem the other day, and he asked my opinion of it. As if _my_ opinion could be worth having! It was charming. I do not think your favourite Catullus, whom you praise so much, and yet will not allow me to read, could have written anything more graceful. It is full of that mournful langour that there is in some of Victor Hugo’s minor poems, and in Longfellow’s--a sweet, calm sadness that pierces one’s heart.” “I am glad he distracts himself by the composition of verses,” said the scholar. “There are some who consider such a course of reading as he is now engaged in dry and laborious; but to my mind there can be no better nurture for a poet. I trust Mr. Thorburn may achieve some kind of success in the future.” “I think he writes or studies a good deal at night, after you have done with him.” “How do you know that, my dear?” “Through Susan, papa. She is always complaining about the candles. You know how economical she is; and I assure you Mr. Thorburn’s consumption of candles is quite an affliction to her. I wonder whether the Grecian _ménagères_ were angry when their lords consumed the midnight oil. Perhaps that was one of Xantippe’s grievances. I don’t think Socrates could have been a _very_ agreeable husband.”