"It was Wordsworth's bitter disappointment in the outcome of the French revolution," continued Ian, "that opened the door to him. Yet he had gone through the outer courts of the temple with more understanding than any who immediately preceded him.--Will you let me ask you a question?" "You frighten me!" said Mercy. "I am sorry for that. We will talk of something else." "I am not afraid of what you may ask me; I am frightened at what you tell me. I fear to go on if I must meet Sorrow on the way!" "You make one think of some terrible secret society!" said Christina. "Tell me then, Miss Mercy, is there anything you love very much? I don't say any PERSON, but any THING." "I love some animals." "An animal is not a thing. It is possible to love animals and not the nature of which we are speaking. You might love a dog dearly, and never care to see the sun rise!--Tell me, did any flower ever make you cry? "No," answered Mercy, with a puzzled laugh; "how could it?" "Did any flower ever make you a moment later in going to bed, or a moment earlier in getting out of it?" "No, certainly!" "In that direction, then, I am foiled!" "You would not really have me cry over a flower, Mr. Ian? Did ever a flower make you cry yourself? Of course not! it is only silly women that cry for nothing!" "I would rather not bring myself in at present," answered Ian smiling. "Do you know how Chaucer felt about flowers?" "I never read a word of Chaucer." "Shall I give you an instance?" "Please." "Chaucer was a man of the world, a courtier, more or less a man of affairs, employed by Edward III. in foreign business of state: you cannot mistake him for an effeminate or sentimental man! He does not anywhere, so far as I remember, say that ever he cried over a flower, but he shows a delight in some flowers so delicate and deep that it must have a source profounder than that of most people's tears. When we go back I will read you what he says about the daisy; but one more general passage I think I could repeat. There are animals in it too!" "Pray let us hear it," said Christina. He spoke the following stanzas--not quite correctly, but supplying for the moment's need where he could not recall:-- A gardein saw I, full of blosomed bowis, Upon a river, in a grene mede, There as sweetnesse evermore inough is, With floures white, blewe, yelowe, and rede, And cold welle streames, nothing dede, That swommen full of smale fishes light, With finnes rede, and scales silver bright. On every bough the birdes heard I sing, With voice of angell, in hir armonie, That busied hem, hir birdes forth to bring, The little pretty conies to hir play gan hie, And further all about I gan espie, The dredeful roe, the buck, the hart, and hind, Squirrels, and beastes small, of gentle kind.