"Who is Campaspe?" said the doctor; while Faith looked, and Miss Essie's black eyes sparkled and danced, and everybody else held his coffee cup in abeyance.
"Did you never hear of my Campaspe?" said Mr. Linden, glancing up from under his brows.
"We will exchange civilities," said the doctor. "I should be very happy to hear of her."
Laughing a little, his own cup sending its persuasive steam unheeded, his own face on the sparkling order—though the eyes looked demurely down,—Mr. Linden went on to answer.
"'Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid payed;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and teame of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lippe, the rose
Growing on's cheek, (but none knows how)
With these, the crystal of his browe,
And then the dimple of his chinne;
All these did my Campaspe winne.
At last he set her both his eyes,—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me!'"
There was a general little breeze of laughter and applause. The doctor had glanced at Faith;—her colour was certainly raised; but then the old Judge had just bent down to ask her "if she had ever heard of Campaspe before?" The doctor did not hear but he guessed at the whisper, and saw Faith's laugh and shake of the head.
"Is that a true bill, Linden?"
"Very true,—" said Mr. Linden, trying his coffee. "But it is not yet known what will become of me."
"What has become of Campaspe?"
"She is using her eyes."