"Who named yours?" "I did--after I read it; they had other names when they were given to me, but as I had never called them by them, I thought I had a right to change them. I wanted names with associations, like Katherine's setters; they are called Darwin and Spencer, because Katherine is very fond of science." "Oh, is she?" said Odd, rather stupefied. "You seem to have a great many dogs in couples." "The others are not; they are more general dogs, like Jack and Vic." Hilda still held Odd's hand: she stooped to stroke Arcite's pensive head, giving the fox terriers a pat as they passed them. "So you are fond of Chaucer?" Odd said. They crossed the gravel path and stepped on the lawn. "Yes, indeed, he is my favorite poet. I have not read all, you know, but especially the Knight's Tale." "That's your favorite?" "Yes." "And what is your favorite part of the Knight's Tale?" "The part where Arcite dies." "You like that?" "Oh! so much; don't you?" "Very much; as much, perhaps, as anything ever written. There never was a more perfect piece of pathos. Perhaps you remember it." He was rather curious to know how deep was this love for Chaucer. "I learnt it by heart; I haven't a good memory, but I liked it so much." "Perhaps you would say it to me." Hilda looked up a little shyly. "Oh, I can't!" she exclaimed timidly. "_Can't_ you?" and Odd looked down at her a humorously pleading interrogation. "I can't say things well; and it is too sad to say--one can just bear to read it." "Just bear to say it--this once," Odd entreated. They had reached the edge of the lawn, and stood on the grassy brink of the river. Hilda looked down into the clear running of the water. "Isn't it pretty? I don't like deep water, where one can't see the bottom; here the grasses and the pebbles are as distinct as possible, and the minnows--don't you like to see them?" "Yes, but Arcite. Don't make me tease you." Hilda evidently determined not to play the coward a second time. The quiet pressure of Odd's hand was encouraging, and in a gentle, monotonous little voice that, with the soft breeze, the quickly running sunlit river, went into Odd's consciousness as a quaint, ineffaceable impression of sweetness and sadness, she recited:-- "Allas the wo! allas the peynes stronge, That I for you have suffered, and so longe! Allas the deth! allas myn Emelye! Allas departing of our companye! Allas myn hertes quene! allas, my wyf! Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf! What is this world? What asketh man to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, withouten any companye." Odd's artistic sensibilities were very keen. He felt that painfully delicious constriction of the throat that the beautiful in art can give, especially the beautiful in tragic art. The far-away tale; the far-away tongue; the nearness of the pathos, poignant in its "white simplicity." And how well the monotonous little voice suited its melancholy.