Harry has had tea with me for the last time, though he does not go to London till the day after to-morrow. We have promised to correspond, which, I saw, pleased him; for, poor boy, he feels very homesick, now that he is actually going, and will be glad of any little glimpse of his family that I can give. I said, “How is it that you, who thought anything better than your monotonous life, are now sorry to leave home?”
“Ah! what can be more monotonous than a solitary lodging will be!” cried Harry.
“But the romping of noisy children—the crying baby—”
“Don’t name them, please! I see now, they are not worthy to be named.”
—“Are destructive of the repose needful for literary composition,” said I, rather mischievously. “Then, Margaret’s daily practising—the surgery bell—”
“Will be sounds by distance made more sweet,” interrupted he. “Pray, Mrs. Cheerlove, have you ever taken the trouble to—ever found leisure to—dip into the little manuscript volume of poems I placed in your hands before our unhappy loss?”
Instead of giving him a straightforward answer, I opened a small book beside me, and read:—
“‘In broad daylight and at noon,