“Lion forbade my aunt to teach me much that I rather wished to learn. She wanted to do so, but she has given it up at his wish. She only now teases me with those horrid French verbs, and that I know is a mere make-belief. Of course on Sunday it is different; then I must not read anything but the Bible and sermons. I don’t care so much for the sermons as I ought, but I could read the Bible all day, every week-day as well as Sunday; and it is from the Bible that I learn that I ought to think less about myself.” Kenelm involuntarily pressed the little hand that lay so innocently on his arm. “Do you know the difference between one kind of poetry and another?” asked Lily, abruptly. “I am not sure. I ought to know when one kind is good and another kind is bad. But in that respect I find many people, especially professed critics, who prefer the poetry which I call bad to the poetry I think good.” “The difference between one kind of poetry and another, supposing them both to be good,” said Lily, positively, and with an air of triumph, “is this,--I know, for Lion explained it to me,--in one kind of poetry the writer throws himself entirely out of his existence, he puts himself into other existences quite strange to his own. He may be a very good man, and he writes his best poetry about very wicked men: he would not hurt a fly, but he delights in describing murderers. But in the other kind of poetry the writer does not put himself into other existences, he expresses his own joys and sorrows, his own individual heart and mind. If he could not hurt a fly, he certainly could not make himself at home in the cruel heart of a murderer. There, Mr. Chillingly, that is the difference between one kind of poetry and another.” “Very true,” said Kenelm, amused by the girl’s critical definitions. “The difference between dramatic poetry and lyrical. But may I ask what that definition has to do with the subject into which you so suddenly introduced it?” “Much; for when Lion was explaining this to my aunt, he said, ‘A perfect woman is a poem; but she can never be a poem of the one kind, never can make herself at home in the hearts with which she has no connection, never feel any sympathy with crime and evil; she must be a poem of the other kind, weaving out poetry from her own thoughts and fancies.’ And, turning to me, he said, smiling, ‘That is the poem I wish Lily to be. Too many dry books would only spoil the poem.’ And you now see why I am so ignorant, and so unlike other girls, and why Mr. and Mrs. Emlyn look down upon me.” “You wrong at least Mr. Emlyn, for it was he who first said to me, ‘Lily Mordaunt is a poem.’” “Did he? I shall love him for that. How pleased Lion will be!” “Mr. Melville seems to have an extraordinary influence over your mind,” said Kenelm, with a jealous pang.