"The past is past, and the dead are dead," murmured the poet thoughtfully.
"A quotation?" asked Beaumont, struck with the remark.
"From a poem of my own," said Ferdinand quickly, "which I would like to read."
"By all means, my boy," asserted the vicar heartily. "Read on."
All the company glanced at one another and Dick groaned audibly, while Mrs. Larcher settled herself in her pillows with a sigh of resignation. But the poet rejoiced that he had succeeded in gaining a hearing, and producing from his pocket a carefully written manuscript read the following poem in a carefully modulated voice:--
A BALLADE OF DEAD DAYS.
I.
Oh, I am weary of idle songs
Of lords and ladies and olden time,
All their mirth to the past belongs,