"Now I will go. It is not likely we shall meet again until the Day of Judgment. At that Day, I shall be glad that I have spoken; and I hope that you will be glad that you have listened." Harry tried to answer, but he knew not what to say. His soul was in a chaos of emotion. There seemed to be no words to interpret it; and before he could find words, the woman was gone, and the door was shut, and he was quite alone. He did not wish to see Yanna just then; and she, being a wise wife, probably divined this feeling, for she did not intrude herself or her opinions on the event at that time. She knew what Hannah Young would say to him, and she understood that such words need neither commentary nor explanation. She was rather satisfied than otherwise, when she heard Harry go out; and as she had promised to dine with Miss Alida, she went there alone--there being already an understanding that Harry should come for her at eleven o'clock. So their next meeting was in a company who were discussing Browning with an extraordinary animation. Miss Alida stopped in the middle of her declaration "that she would rather have her teeth drawn than be compelled to read _Sordello_," to smile a welcome; and Yanna's look of pleasure drew him to her side; where he stood leaning on her chair and watching Professor Snowdon, who was holding a book open at the likeness of the poet. "What a brave countenance!" he cried. "How honest, and thoughtful, and kindly! And what a pleasant shrewdness in the eyes! It is a perfect English face." "Oh, indeed!" said a scholarly man who stood by Miss Alida; "if Browning had an English body, his soul was that of some thirteenth-century Italian painter. Does he not say of himself: 'Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it--"Italy."' Now it is a prejudice with me, that if an Englishman is to open his heart to us, we ought to find _England_ written there. Shakespeare, who is at home with all people, is never so mighty and so lovable as when depicting the sweet-natured English ladies who became his 'Imogenes,' 'Perditas,' and 'Helenas,' or dallying with his own country wild-flowers, or in any way exalting England's life and loveliness, majesty and power." "And pray, sir," asked the Professor, "who but a man with an English heart could have written that home-yearning song: 'Oh to be in England Now that April's there; And whoever wakes in England, Sees, some morning unaware, That the lowest boughs, and the brush-wood sheaf Round the elm tree bole, are in tiny leaf; While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough, In England--now!'" "There is somewhere a still finer home-thought," said Harry. "I remember learning it when I was at college;" and as Adriana looked backward and smiled, and the Professor nodded approval, and Miss Alida said, "Let us have the lines, Harry," he repeated them without much self-consciousness, and with a great deal of spirit: