'Here, at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and claps its silver wings;
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.'" etc.
The doctor listened, faithfully and enjoyingly; but his finishing comment was,
"What a pity it is November!"
"No," said Faith—"I think I enjoyed it better than I should in July."
"Rousseau's doctrine," said the doctor. "Or do you mean that you like the description better than the reality?"
"It was the reality I enjoyed," said Faith.
"What have you got there, Linden?"
"Various old poets, bound up together."
"What was that you read?"
"Andrew Marvell's 'Garden.'"