"Yes," continued John Glynne, thoughtfully. "Poetry should not make us dreamy, useless, inert; it should rather stimulate us to the highest service, by making clear to us the true meaning of life—that man's blessedness does not consist in any material happiness, but in service, in doing his duty."
"Duty, ah, yes," said Aldyth, earnestly. "Do you know, I think I am beginning to understand the meaning of Wordsworth's 'Ode to Duty.' It used to puzzle me, but now I see the beauty of those words—
"'Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face.'"
They were passing beneath a street lamp, and looking up, Aldyth caught the strange, wistful glance with which her companion regarded her, ere he said, in low, grave tones—
"Are you indeed beginning to understand it? It takes a deal of learning. No one can rightly understand the poem who has not realized the whole force of that word 'stern' that the poet so aptly uses—'stern daughter,' 'stern lawgiver,' nor how essential to the bondman of duty is 'the spirit of self-sacrifice.'"
He spoke so seriously that Aldyth felt awed, and for a moment the gladness of her mood was checked. Would a time come in her life when Duty would wear no smile up her face, but assume the attitude of a stern, inexorable lawgiver, demanding the renunciation of happiness? They were at Mr. Greenwood's house. The light from the opening door fell on Aldyth's face, and showed the shadow there. But as she met John Glynne's quick comprehensive glance and reassuring smile, the shadow vanished, and Aldyth ran lightly up the steps.
[CHAPTER V.]
A DAY AT WYNDHAM HALL.
ALDYTH and Hilda were very busy during the next few days. They were writing their essays on the "Characteristics of Eighteenth Century Poetry," and whenever they met, they discussed the subject, and manifested considerable excitement as to the result of their work. Hilda, indeed, was so absorbed in this new interest that Kitty laughingly declared that she was lost to the nineteenth century, and would have been oblivious of every duty she owed to her contemporaries if she had not looked after her.
"It is well I am a prosaic mortal," Kitty would say as she arranged flowers, watered the plants in the conservatory, and attended to the various little details on which the beauty and comfort of a home depend; "not a room in the house would be fit to be seen if they were left to Hilda."