“Nothing,—some nonsense. And how are our friends?” But as she spoke, a blush covered her face and glowed under her fine transparent skin. It was one of the peculiarities of this childish nature that she was at once prompt and unskilful in falsehood. Annoyed by his earnest gaze, she rose from her chair. “You wish to know what I am reading! Look, then.” He saw once more the glossy cover of the Review that he had read for the first time in the engine-room of the Cydnus; only it was thinner and smaller. Jack would not have opened it if the following title on the outer page had not met his eyes:— THE PARTING. A POEM. By the Vicomte Amacry d’Abgenton. And commenced thus:— “TO ONE WHO HAS GONE. “What! with out one word of farewell, Without a turn of the head...” Two hundred lines followed these. That there might be no mistake, the name of Charlotte occurred several times. Jack flung down the magazine with a shrug of the shoulders. “And he dared to send you this?” “Yes; two or three days ago.” Ida was dying to pick up the book from the floor, but dared not. After a while she stooped, carelessly. “You do not intend to keep those verses, do you? They are simply absurd.” “But I do not think them so.” “He simply beats his wings and crows, mother dear; his words touch no human heart.” “Be more just, Jack,”—her voice trembled,—“heaven knows that I know M. D’Argenton better than any one, his faults and the defects of his nature, because I have suffered from them. The man I give up to you; as to the poet, it is a different thing. In the opinion of every one, the peculiarity of M. D’Argenton’s genius is the sympathetic quality of his verses. Musset had its irksome degree; and I think that the beginning of this poem, ‘The Parting,’ is very touching: the young woman who goes away in the morning fog in her ball-dress without one word of farewell.” Jack could not restrain himself. “But the woman is yourself,” he cried, “and you know under what circumstances you left.” She answered, coldly,—