"A piece I gave Mr. Carleton to read. Mr. Carleton, tell how you like it, sir."
"But what is it, mamma?"
"A piece of poetry in an old Excelsior--'The Spirit of the Fireside.' Mr. Carleton, won't you read it aloud, and let us all hear--but tell me first what you think of it."
"It has pleased me particularly, Mrs. Evelyn."
"Mr. Stackpole says he does not understand it, sir."
"Fanciful," said Mr. Stackpole,--"it's a little fanciful--and I can't quite make out what the fancy is."
"It has been the misfortune of many good things before not to be prized, Mr. Stackpole," said the lady funnily.
"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 freemasonry of its own."
"Very hidden indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole;--"the cloud is so thick that I can't see the electricity!"