"A premature warning," was the grave reply; "I had no such idea. I admire Tennyson fully as much as you can do, and read him, I dare say, much oftener. I was only speaking of his performances in the _manege_; indeed, there is not enough of these to make a fair illustration, so I was wrong to bring them in. When he settles to his stride, few of the 'cracks' of last century seem able to live with him. They have not set all his best things to music. A clever composer might do great things, I fancy, with 'The Sisters,' and the _refrain_ of 'the wind in turret and tree.'" "It would never be a very general favorite," Miss Tresilyan observed. "It seems hardly right to set to music even an imaginary story of great sin and sorrow. I saw a sketch of it some time ago. The murderess was sitting on a cushion close to the earl's body, with her head bent so low that one of her black tresses almost touched his smooth golden curls; you could just see the hilt of the dagger under her left hand. That, and the corpse's quiet, pale face were the only two objects that stood out in relief; for the storm outside was stirring the window-curtains, and making the one lamp flare irregularly. Her features were in the shadow, and you had to fancy how hard, and rigid, and dreary they must be. It was the merest sketch, but if it had been worked out, it would have made a very terrible picture." "A good conception," Royston said; "well, perhaps it would not be a pleasant song to sing, but better, I should think, than some of those dreadful sentimental ones. They are not much worse than the Strephon and the Chloe class, in which our ancestors delighted; still, they are indefensible. If our Lauras find Petrarchs now, they are usually very beardless ones, and the green morocco cover, with its golden lock, covers their indiscretions. Those who write love ditties for the piano _must_ celebrate a shadow who can't be critical. Imagine any man insulting a real woman of average intellect with 'Will you love me then as now!'" "Yes," she assented, "they are too absurd as a rule. They make our cheeks burn, as if we were performing some very ridiculous part in low comedy; but they do not warm one's heart, like 'Annie Laurie.'" "Ah! it's curious how that always suggests itself as the standard to compare others with: not fair, though, for it makes most of them sound so feeble and effeminate. Douglas of Finland wrote it, you know, in the campaign which finished him. Long before that the charming Annie had given her promise true to Craigdarroch; and she had to keep it, _tant bien que mal_, for it was pronounced in the Tron Church, instead of on the braes of Maxwellton. I wonder if she inscribed those verses in her scrap-book? I dare say she did, and sang them to her grandchildren, in a cracked treble."