Instead of giving him a straightforward answer, I opened a small book beside me, and read:— “‘In broad daylight and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white As a schoolboy’s paper kite. “‘In broad daylight yesterday I read a poet’s mystic lay; And it seemed to me, at most, As a phantom or a ghost.’” “Oh horrible, horrible!” cried Harry. “So then you think my verses poor and unreal? Not fire enough? or what—what is it?” “Pause, and hear me,” continued I, reading on:— “‘But, at length, the feverish day Like a passion passed away; And the night, serene and pale, Fell on village, hill, and vale. “‘Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light. “‘And the poet’s song again Passed like music through my brain: Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery.’” “Did it?—did it?” cried he. “Well, in some degree it did. I read them by daylight, when I confess I thought your time might have been better spent in almost any harmless thing than in writing them. After tea I remembered how many of my own young attempts, of one sort and another, had demanded far more indulgence. So then I read them again, and not only liked them better, but liked some of them very well—very much. I do not think, however, that your verses will _sell_. Here, now, is a stanza you must explain to me:— “‘Overcome with trouble deep, Rest, too restless to be sleep, While these sorrows did combine, An angel’s face looked into mine.’ Now, what did you mean by that?” “That I shall never divulge,” said Harry, folding his arms. “Oh, very well, then. If you only half confide to me and to the public a secret that is never to be divulged, we may as well know nothing about it.” “There is a very solemn meaning underneath,” said he, gravely. “There _may_ be,” said I, after pondering over it a little. And a vision floated before me of poor orphaned Harry crying himself almost to sleep, and then suddenly becoming aware that his mother was bending over him with looks of love. “The next verse,” said I, “I tell you frankly, Harry, I like very much:— “‘Oh! if my griefs their hold forsook, But at an angel’s passing look, Saviour, how great the joy must be, Always of beholding thee!’