"True, Ma'am," said that gentleman, rubbing his chin, "and the converse is also true, unfortunately, and with a much wider application."
"There is a peculiarity of mental development or training," said Mr. Carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds, because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or experience. Some literature has a hidden free-masonry of its own."
"Very hidden, indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole; "the cloud is so thick that I can't see the electricity."
"Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, laughing, "I take that remark as a compliment, Sir; I have always appreciated that writer's pieces; I enjoy them very much."
"Well, wont you, please, read it, Mr. Carleton?" said
Florence, "and let us know what we are talking about."
Mr. Carleton obeyed, standing where he was, by the centre- table.
"By the old hearthstone a Spirit dwells,
The child of bygone years
He lieth hid the stones amid,
And liveth on smiles and tears.
"But when the night is drawing on,
And the fire burns clear and bright,
He cometh out and walketh about
In the pleasant grave twilight.
"He goeth round on tiptoe soft,
And scanneth close each face;
If one in the room be sunk in gloom,
By him he taketh his place.
"And then with fingers cool and soft
(Their touch who does not know?)
With water brought from the well of thought,
That was dug long years ago,