“Certainly not--but poetry! I thought you had no romance about you--only fun,” he rejoined. “You were mistaken. I am romantic. If I had not been I should never have come to Ferndale.” “I fail to see the romance of your coming here, Miss Barry.” “It is not necessary that you should see it,” with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes. “No,” he returned, piqued at the brusquerie of the retort. In a minute he added: “Since you confess to being romantic, perhaps you will read ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship’ aloud for me. It is just the scene for reading poetry--this grassy seat, these nodding ferns, overarching trees, sunshine, and all the rest of it.” “Yes, I will read it for you. That will be better than hearing you sneer at me,” said Molly. She let her stony, dark eyes meet his violet ones for a moment coolly, then dropped her gaze to the book. In a minute she began to read with a clear, pure enunciation and a faultless accuracy that amazed him. Throwing himself down on the velvety greensward by her side, he listened like one fascinated to the poet’s flowing numbers rendered with faultless accuracy by Molly’s fresh, young voice. Who does not know the story of “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”?--the story of the poor poet’s love for a lovely, noble lady who trampled under her dainty feet the prejudices of pride and rank and wedded the young genius, her lover? Molly’s eloquent voice gave full value to the story, rose in passion, sank in pathos, thrilled and trembled alternately, while her eyes sparkled or melted to tears in sympathy. Cecil Laurens, the handsome, gifted man of the world, indolent, self-conceited, proud, gazed and listened in unfeigned astonishment. “The little witch has been teasing me all this while. She is not the little ignoramus and madcap I believed her at first. She has been well-educated, her voice is thoroughly trained. No wonder she laughed when I wanted her to go to school again,” he said to himself, but instead of being angry with her, he experienced pleasure in finding out that she had culture he had not dreamed she possessed. The long poem came to an end at last and Molly folded her small hands together over the page. Her listener started up to a sitting posture. “Thank you, for the pleasure you have given me,” he said, earnestly. “It is indeed a grand poem.” “I scarcely expected you to say so,” she retorted, meaningly. “I thought you were too proud. How can you reconcile yourself to the idea of the Lady Geraldine marrying so far beneath her in station--you who are always taking for a text my poor father’s _mésalliance_?” “This case was different--the poet’s genius leveled the barrier between him and the earl’s daughter--raised him to her rank,” he replied. “My--step-mother--had genius. She was a star of the dramatic stage. She gave up a brilliant career to marry the man she loved, yet you condemn her as unworthy,” Molly said, excitedly, with flashing eyes. He frowned.