“You are welcome,” Mr. Belamour replied. “I doubt its great antiquity, since the story of Cupid and Psyche cannot be traced beyond Apuleius. I used it because Dr. Godfrey will remember it. He was with me at Rome when I purchased it.” The ring was of the size for a lady’s finger, and Aurelia durst ask no more. How the letter was sent she knew not, but Mrs. Aylward was summoned to Mr. Belamour’s room, and desired to have a room ready at any time for his friend. Three days later, towards sunset, a substantial-looking clergyman, attended by two servants, rode up to the door; and was immediately appropriated by Jumbo, disappearing into the mysterious apartments; Aurelia expected no summons that night, but at the usual hour, the negro brought a special request for the honour of her society; and as she entered the dark room, Mr. Belamour said, “My fair and charitable visitor will permit me to present to her my old and valued friend, Dr. Godfrey.” He laid the hand he had taken on one that returned a little gentlemanly acknowledgment, while a kind fatherly voice said, “The lady must pardon me if I do not venture to hand her to her chair.” “Thank you, sir, I am close to my seat.” “Your visitors acquire blind eyes, Belamour,” said Dr. Godfrey, cheerfully. “More truly they become eyes to the blind,” was the answer. “I feel myself a man of the world again, since this amiable young lady has conned the papers on my behalf, and given herself the trouble of learning the choicest passages of the poets to repeat to me.” “You are very good, sir,” returned Aurelia; “it is my great pleasure.” “That I can well believe,” said Dr. Godfrey. “Have these agreeable recitations made you acquainted with the new poem on the _Seasons_ by Mr. James Thomson?” “No,” replied Mr. Belamour, “my acquaintance with the _belles letters_ ceased nine years ago.” “The descriptions have been thought extremely effective. Those of autumn were recalled to my mind on my way.” Dr. Godfrey proceeded to recite some twenty lines of blank verse, for in those days people had more patience and fewer books, and exercised their memories much more than their descendants do. Listening was far from being thought tedious. “‘But see the fading many-coloured roads, Shade deepening over shade, the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dim, Of every hue, from wan, declining green, To sooty dark.’” The lines had a strange charm to one who had lived in darkness through so many revolving years. Mr. Belamour eagerly thanked his friend, and on the offer to lend him the book, begged that it might be ordered for him, and that any other new and interesting work might be sent to him that was suitable to the fair lips on which he was dependent. “You are secure with Mr. Thomson,” said the Doctor. “Hear the conclusion of his final hymn.”