But he smiles such lovingness, That I will not fear to guess!-- ‘Father called; you would not come! Here I am to take you home! ‘For the father feels the dearth Of his children round his hearth-- ‘Wants them round and on his knee-- That’s his throne for you and me!’ Something lovely like to this Surely lights that look of bliss! Or if something else be there, Then ‘tis something yet more fair; For within the father’s breast Lies the whole world in its nest,” She ceased. Walter said nothing. His heart was full. What verses were these beside Lufa’s fire-works! “You don’t care for them!” said Molly, sadly, but with the sweetest smile. “It’s not that I care so much about the poetry; but I do love what I thought the baby might be thinking: it seems so true! so fit to be true!” “The poetry is lovely, anyhow!” said Walter. “And one thing I am sure of--the father will not take me on his knee, if I go on as I have been doing! You must let me see everything you write, or have written, Molly! Should you mind?” “Surely not, Walter! We used to read everything we thought might be yours!” “Oh, don’t!” cried Walter. “I can’t bear to think of the beastly business!--I beg your pardon, Molly; but I am ashamed of the thing. There was not one stroke of good in the whole affair!” “I admit,” said Molly, “the kind of thing is not real work, though it may well be hard enough! But all writing about books and authors is not of that kind. A good book, like a true man, is well worth writing about by any one who understands it. That is very different from making it one’s business to sit in judgment on the work of others. The mental condition itself of habitual judgment is a false one. Such an attitude toward any book requiring thought, and worthy of thought, renders it impossible for the would-be judge to know what is in the book. If, on the other hand, the book is worth little or nothing, it is not worth writing about, and yet has a perfect claim to fair play. If we feel differently at different times about a book we know, how am I to know the right mood for doing justice to a new book?” “I am afraid the object is to write, not to judge righteous judgment!” “One whose object is to write, and with whom judgment is the mere pretext for writing, is a parasite, and very pitiful, because, being a man, he lives as a flea lives. You see, Walter, by becoming a critic, you have made us critical--your father and me! We have talked about these things ever since you took to the profession!” “Trade, Molly!” said Walter, gruffly.