Hanny said they had several books yet, and she was going down to West Farms in a few days. She wanted to finish "The White Rose of England."
"History in romance,—I dare say that suits young people best."
She stood in a sort of vague uncertainty.
"Well?" in a voice of suggestive inquiry, as if she might ask him anything.
"Oh!" she cried, summoning all her courage, and flushing as she did so, "will you please tell me who the pretty lady in blue was, who came up the other day in the carriage? She looked like a poet!"
He did laugh then, softly, as if laughing was a little strange.
"Is that your idea of a poet? Well, she is one,—an airy, light-winged poet with dainty conceits, and a charming woman, too. I must tell her she captured you at sight. That is Frances Sargent Osgood. And beside her sat Mrs. Gove Nichols, one of the new lights. Stay, I think I can find a poem or two of Fanny Osgood's for you."
He hunted up two or three magazines. Hanny sat down on the door-sill; it was so softly, so enchantingly bright out-of-doors, and the room a little gloomy. She wanted to have a glimpse of sunshine, for Mrs. Osgood looked as if she belonged to the brighter world.
They were dainty and bright. One was set to music afterward; and the little girl learned to sing it very prettily:—
"I've something sweet to tell you,
And the secret you must keep,
For remember, if it isn't night,
I'm talking in my sleep."