Herbert, perceiving that his mother was displeased, began in the same instant to be frightened; he hurried on as fast as he could, without understanding one word more of what he was reading; his precipitation was worse than his slowness: he stumbled over the words, missed syllables, missed lines, made the most incomprehensible nonsense of the whole; till, at length, Mrs. Harcourt shut the book in despair, and soon afterward despatched Herbert, who was also in despair, to bed. At this catastrophe, Favoretta looked very grave, and a general gloom seemed to overspread the company. Mrs. Harcourt was mortified at the silence that prevailed, and made several ineffectual attempts to revive the freedom and gaiety of conversation:--"Ah!" said she to herself, "I knew it would be so;--they cannot be happy without Mad. de Rosier." Isabella had taken up a book. "Cannot you read for our entertainment, Isabella, my dear, as well as for your own?" said her mother: "I assure you, I am as much interested always in what you read to me, as Mad. de Rosier herself can be." "I was just looking, mamma, for some lines, that we read the other day, which Mad. de Rosier said she was sure you would like. Can you find them, Matilda? You know Mad. de Rosier said that mamma would like them, because she has been at the opera." "I have been at a great many operas," said Mrs. Harcourt, dryly; "but I like other things as well as operas--and I cannot precisely guess what you mean by _the_ opera--has it no name?" "Medea and Jason, ma'am." "The _ballet_ of Medea and Jason. It's a very fine thing, certainly; but one has seen it so often. Read on, my dear." Isabella then read a passage, which, notwithstanding Mrs. Harcourt's inclination to be displeased, captivated her ear, and seized her imagination. "Slow out of earth, before the festive crowds, On wheels of fire, amid a night of clouds, Drawn by fierce fiends, arose a magic car, Received the queen, and, hov'ring, flamed in air. As with raised hands the suppliant traitors kneel, And fear the vengeance they deserved to feel; "Thrice, with parch'd lips, her guiltless babes she press'd, And thrice she clasp'd them to her tortured breast. Awhile with white uplifted eyes she stood, Then plunged her trembling poniards in their blood. Go, kiss your sire! go, share the bridal mirth! She cried, and hurl'd their quiv'ring limbs on earth. Rebellowing thunders rock the marble tow'rs, And red-tongucd lightnings shoot their arrowy show'rs: Earth yawns!--the crashing ruin sinks!--o'er all Death with black hands extends his mighty pall." "They are admirable lines, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Harcourt. "I knew, mamma, you would like them," said Isabella; "and I'm sure I wish I had seen the ballet too."