"It’s rather difficult, sir, so many letters; but he seems to have been very unlucky, too, like Don Juan. A _most_ unkind mother; fancy, she threw the fireirons at him, and her one of the gentry—and his wife didn’t seem very nice either—and then I looked at the end——" "Well?" said Mr. Wycherly, for Jane-Anne paused suddenly. "And I found he’s dead, and he died to help Greece; and I’m so sorry." "Sorry he died to help Greece?" "No, for that’s why my daddie loved him, I’m sure of that; but because he’s dead. _I_ should have loved him dearly." "A great many people did that," said Mr. Wycherly. "I shall read all his poetry books, and learn all the bits I like; and then—perhaps—do you think that, up in heaven, he could ever know how much I cared?" Mr. Wycherly looked into the eager, wistful face, and wondered, too. "Listen to me, my child," he said. "I think that if Lord Byron does know, he is very pleased and touched; but I also think that he would be the very first person to suggest that you should wait a little before you read all his poetry. If you will allow me, I will select the volumes I think he would prefer you to begin on. ’Don Juan,’ for instance, I should leave alone for the present; directly you know by heart and can write out, in your most beautiful writing, the whole of your favourite poem from the third canto——" "I can do that now," she cried eagerly. "Would it please Lord Byron, do you think, sir?" "I am certain of it." "And you’ll tell me what you think he’d like me to read. I should so love to do something for him; poor dear, so sad and lonely often. Did you ever know him, sir?" Mr. Wycherly shook his head. "He died a good many years before I was born." "So long ago!" Jane-Anne’s voice was solemn and awestruck, for Mr. Wycherly seemed to her incalculably old and wise. "One thing, sir," she continued in quite a different tone, "I have quite altered. I shan’t marry a first footman—I shall marry a poet. I shall hunt about till I find someone like Lord Byron—if he’s a lord so much the better. I’d like that; but if he isn’t—if he can say very beautiful things, I shall love him just the same. Shall you like that better, sir?" Mr. Wycherly sighed. "I’m afraid, my dear, that I’m a selfish old curmudgeon, who would like to keep you in his heart-pocket always. I shan’t like any of them." "Then I shall stay in your pocket," said Jane-Anne. It was time to clear away, and she took the tea-things back to the kitchen. Mr. Wycherly went into the parlour, a room he rarely entered except when the boys were at home. He set his glasses firmly on his nose and inspected the contents of the book-case. Just before he went away, Jane-Anne had pressed her favourite "Bruey" upon him, and he had read it. Now he took down the second volume of "Don Juan"—the first was missing—from the top shelf, and turned the leaves, shaking his head: