"What are you doing?" said her father at length, noticing her head bowed close to the railing.
"Wait a moment and I'll tell you," said she. "There! I believe I have them all correct now. Shall I read them to you?"
"What are they?" asked he.
"Verses. I found them written in pencil on this painted strip."
"Are they worth reading?" inquired he, carelessly.
"O, yes!" she returned, earnestly. "Very pretty, I think!"
"Well, go on, then!" said he.
She commenced in a low tone, which grew in depth and sweetness as she proceeded. Surely, if the author had never had the vanity to deem his brief production possessed of merit, he would have grown into conceit of it had he heard it falling so sweetly from those half-tremulous lips.
"Sea-green river, white and foamy,
Madly rushing on below;