"Yes. It is charming when the eye of one and the ear of another dwell in sympathy on the same inspiring sentiments; when the reader, glowing with enthusiasm, turns from the page before him to a living page, printed by the hand of God, in fair, divine characters. It is like looking from the shining heavens to a clear, crystallized stream, and seeing its glories reflected there, and our own image likewise, tremulously bright." "Oh!" thought I, "how many times have I thus listened; but has he ever thus read?" I wish I could recollect all the conversation of the morning,--it was so rich and varied. I sat, unconscious of the fading flowers and the passing moments; unconscious of the faint vibration of that _deep, under chord_, which breathes in low, passionate strains, life's tender and pathetic mirror. "I am glad you like this room," he continued. "Here you can sit, queen of the past, surrounded by beings more glorious than those that walk the earth or dwell in air or sea. You travel not, yet the wonders of earth's various climes are around and about you. Buried cities are exhumed at your bidding, and their dim palaces glitter once more with burning gold. And here, above all the Eleusinian mysteries of the human heart are laid bare, without the necessity of revealing your own. But I am detaining you too long. Your languid blossoms reproach me. When you come here again, do not forget that we have here thought and felt in unison." Just as he was leaving the library, Mrs. Linwood entered. She started on seeing him, and her eye rested on me with an anxious, troubled look. "You are become an early riser, my son," she said. "You encourage so excellent a habit, do you not, my mother?" "Certainly; but it seems to me a walk in the fresh morning air would be more health-giving than a seat within walls, damp with the mould of antiquity." "We have brought the dewy morning within doors," said he; while I, gathering flowers, basket, and hat, waited for Mrs. Linwood to move, that I might leave the room. She stood between me and the threshold, and for the first time I noticed in her face a resemblance to her son. It might be because a slight cloud rested on her brow. "You will not have time to arrange your flowers this morning," she gravely observed to me. "It is almost the breakfast hour, and you are still in your garden costume." My eyes bowed beneath her mildly rebuking glance, and the fear of her displeasure chilled the warm rapture which had left its glow upon my cheek. "Let me assist you," he cried, in an animated tone. "It was I who encroached on your time, and must bear the blame, if blame indeed there be. There is a homely proverb, that 'many hands make light work.' Come, let us prove its truth."