"I was looking into John Guillim's book a day or two since. He is an old-time Pursuivant at Arms. Upon your family name and the three nettle leaves, which you'll see cut in the amethyst at the handle of your riding-whip, you shall find a quaint word or two. Guillim says the nettle is of so tetchie and froward a nature that no man may meddle with it, and he adds that a little girl being once stung thereby, complained to her father that there was such a curst herb in his garden, that it was worse than a dog, for it would bite them of its own house. Her father told her that the herb's nature was a notable impartiality, for friend and foe were alike to it. Then there's a pleasant epigram-- "'Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains." Not that that applies to Mr. Malherb." "No, indeed! Father is no nettle," said Grace sharply. "Most true. The nettle's flower is plain, not exquisitely beautiful," he answered, looking at her. "Your father has the sturdy characteristics of his house, none of the prickles. A grand singleness of purpose marks his ways." "He feels too deeply, if anything." "And too much feeling so often obscures perception. It is unfortunate." "There's the War Prison," said Grace, changing the subject; "that dreadful thing stretching out down there--a ring within a ring. I always think it is like something in Dante made real." "Dante, eh? Hell, and so forth. Yes, that's a hell for many a brave, lonely heart. Doubtless there are lovers among 'em. By the way, I thought your dear father was a little hard upon the American prisoners--if I may dare to say so." "He knows best," said Grace firmly; "and they do give a great deal of trouble. To break away from their mother country over a paltry question of money!" "It's wonderful how soon matters of money make every question acute--lift it into a serious affair. Men will argue about their Maker, or the chances of Eternity, or the heat of the sun, with irreproachable temper; but let the matter be a sovereign---- As to America--taxes or no taxes--fools in our Parliament or fools in their Congress--it had to come. Look at a map of the world." "In this war, at any rate, they are utterly mistaken," said Grace. "I know all about it, and facts are facts." "And facts never contradict each other. That's a blessing." "No doubt the wrong men are suffering now," she added, looking down upon the prison; "but that is a general rule in war." "And life. What a beehive it is! 'A dungeon horrible on all sides round.' Hark! you can hear the 'sorrowful sighing of the prisoners.' Or rather you can hear their laughter. In fact, they appear to be playing a game in that far-off corner. It must be prisoners' base, no doubt." "I pity every one of them, and especially the poor little powder-monkeys we captured in their ships," she said.