"Was she very beautiful?"
"Oh, child, beauty isn't everything!" and Jennie smiled. "Yes; it was said she was. But she was so thin and pale. She used to sit out there on the porch, wrapped in a white shawl, with his arm about her, or her head resting on his shoulder. You see no one knew much about them then, and they kept so to themselves. Then there is his unfortunate habit, that you cannot help feeling ought not to belong to a person of his intelligence. It is a great pity."
Hanny sighed. She was to know a great deal more about the world later on, and the appreciation that was spread as a garment about the poet when his life's fitful fever ended.
There was an influx of quite elderly people one afternoon; and Hanny, gathering up some books, stole up to the little cottage, quite assured no one would need her, or even miss her.
The corner of books had been "cleared up." In the wide fireplace, there was a jar of feathery asparagus, and on the table a vase of flowers. There were a number of pictures, Hanny noticed. She had hardly glanced about the room before,—the plain, low-ceiled room to which people were to make pilgrimages as time went on.
The poet sat by the table in a dreamy, indolent mood.
"Did you find what you wanted the other day?" he asked gently.
"Oh, yes! And I have read 'The Saracen.' It interested me so, I couldn't leave it a moment. I didn't want to like Saladin so much; but I had to. But I shall never give up Richard."
He smiled a little at that, kindly, cordially, and her heart warmed to him. The pervasive eyes were so deep and beautiful! In spite of the pallor and attenuation, the face had a rare charm.
"So Richard is your hero? Well, you will doubtless change your heroes a good many times before you get through with life. I think I had a boy's fancy for Saladin once. Yet heroes come to be quite common-place people after all. I wonder if I have any more that you would like?"