“Father, do read the same again!” begged Joan.
“That you may see mother cry?”
“I should not be so silly now,” said Dulcibel. “It was a thing in short stanzas, three lines to each; I remember that, though I have forgotten all the rest. And you know, George, I detest poetry.”
George said “Yes,” as he turned over the leaves.
“But you would like father to read it again now, wouldn’t you?” asked Joan.
Dulcibel’s “Well, perhaps—yes,” was not very enthusiastic.
“If I can find it,” George said dubiously. “My recollections are rather vague. Ha, here it is, I believe!”
“Do skip a little, if it is very long,” pleaded Dulcibel, peering over at the page. “A few verses will do.”
“Very well, my dear. I’ll skip some, on condition that you hear the rest patiently.”
Dulcibel gave a little gape behind her hand, and assumed an air of resignation, as George began—