The child ceased speaking, at a loss to explain, her little brows knit as she stood searching for expression. The boy Noll stood at gaze, wondering. Netherby Gomme said not a word. The girl sighed: “Doesn’t it say that to you?” she asked, looking up at the big awkward fellow, whose intent face, lit by the candle-light, showed large eyes fixed on some distant thought. He came back to earth: “Yes, Betty,” said he--“something like that. That is one of the world’s masterpieces.” “Masterpiece.” The child repeated the word lovingly--“I like that word--masterpiece.” She went to the next print. It was the wondrous little wood-engraving of the vision as seen by the youthful Holman Hunt of The Lady of Shalott when the mirror cracks from side to side and the web on the loom flies wide, for her eyes have seen unheeding Lancelot. The child looked at it for a long while: “I think I know what that means,” she said--“the lady has been weaving something, and it has all got tangled about her, and she can’t undo the knots.” She sighed: “It is so hard to undo the knots,” she said. Netherby Gomme coughed: “Have you ever heard the ballad of _The Lady of Shalott_, Betty?” he asked. The child shook her dainty head. “Sit down in a cosy chair and I’ll read it to you,” he said. And he set his armchair for her, seating himself by his lamp. He took up a battered, dog-eared volume of Tennyson and read the immortal ballad, and Betty, to the haunting music of the verse, strayed into the meads by Camelot, and, lingering by the river’s brink, she listened with the awed reapers amongst the bearded barley, watching the heavy barges glide by until there came wending past that most tragic barge of all that floated down to the hushed death-song of the broken-hearted faery Lady of Shalott. Netherby Gomme closed the book gently, and watched the child. Her eyes were full of tears: “But--but why did she die?” she asked eagerly. “She loved what could not give her love,” he said. The child nodded her head: “I think I understand,” she said. The child sat silent for a long while. Then she took the lighted candle and went and peered at the little design. She came back to the table, and put down the candle upon it: “I like the way that lady’s head is placed right up against the top of the picture,” she said--“as if she felt something were crushing her down....” She put her small hands on her dainty head--“crushing and crushing her down--and she can’t get away from it, because--it’s all tangled--tangled--tangled. And it won’t come right.... It always feels just like that.” “Good God!” said Netherby Gomme hoarsely--“has this child begun to suffer already?” The child went to his knee and gazed at him: “Your eyes are full of tears,” she said. He blew his nose noisily: “You must not take my tears too seriously, Betty,” said he--“I am a humorist.” “But Mr.----” “No, no, Betty--no misters, please, between us here--plain Netherby,” he corrected her.