So she began. Molly was not so much absorbed in listening but that she could glance round the room. The character of the furniture was much the same as in her own. Old-fashioned, of handsome material, and faultlessly clean, the age and the foreign appearance of it gave an aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment. On the walls there hung some crayon sketches—portraits. She thought she could make out that one of them was a likeness of Mrs. Hamley, in her beautiful youth. And then she became interested in the poem, and dropped her work, and listened in a manner that was after Mrs. Hamley’s own heart. When the reading of the poem was ended, Mrs. Hamley replied to some of Molly’s words of admiration, by saying—

“Ah! I think I must read you some of Osborne’s poetry some day; under seal of secrecy, remember; but I really fancy it is almost as good as Mrs. Hemans’.”

To be nearly as good as Mrs. Hemans’ was saying as much to the young ladies of that day, as saying that poetry is nearly as good as Tennyson’s would be in this. Molly looked up with eager interest.

“Mr. Osborne Hamley? Does your son write poetry?”

“Yes. I really think I may say he is a poet. He is a very brilliant, clever young man, and he quite hopes to get a fellowship at Trinity. He says he is sure to be high up among the wranglers, and that he expects to get one of the Chancellor’s medals. That is his likeness—the one hanging against the wall behind you.”

Molly turned round, and saw one of the crayon sketches —representing two boys, in the most youthful kind of jackets and trousers, with falling collars. The elder was sitting down, reading intently. The younger was standing by him, and evidently trying to call the attention of the reader off to some object out-of- doors—out of the window of the very room in which they were sitting, as Molly discovered when she began to recognise the articles of furniture faintly indicated in the picture.

“I like their faces!” said Molly. “I suppose it is so long ago now, that I may speak of their likenesses to you as if they were somebody else; may not I?”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Hamley, as soon as she understood what Molly meant. “Tell me just what you think of them, dear; it will amuse me to compare your impressions with what they really are.”

“Oh! but I did not mean to guess at their characters. I could not do it; and it would be impertinent, if I could. I can only speak about their faces as I see them in the picture.”

“Well! tell me what you think of them!”

“The eldest—the reading boy—is very beautiful; but I can’t quite make out his face yet, because his head is down, and I can’t quite see the eyes. That is the Mr. Osborne Hamley who writes poetry?”

“Yes. He is not quite so handsome now; but he was a beautiful boy. Roger was never to be compared with him.”

“No; he is not handsome. And yet I like his face. I can see his eyes. They are grave and solemn-looking; but all the rest of his face is rather merry than otherwise. It looks too steady and sober, too good a face, to go tempting his brother to leave his lesson.”

“Ah! but it was not a lesson. I remember the painter, Mr. Green, once saw Osborne reading some poetry, while Roger was trying to persuade him to come out and have a ride in the hay-cart—that was the ‘motive’ of the picture, to speak artistically. Roger is not much of a reader; at least, he doesn’t care for poetry, and books of romance, or sentiment. He is so fond of natural history; and that takes him, like the Squire, a great deal out-of-doors; and, when he is in, he is always reading scientific books that bear upon his