Shirley

family union elevates. Hortense, pleased with her brother, and grateful to him, looked, as she touched her guitar, almost graceful, almost handsome; her every-day fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replaced by a »sourire plein de bonté.« She sang the songs he asked for, with feeling; they reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached; they reminded her of her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline listened with naïve interest; this augmented her good-humour; and the exclamation at the close of the song, »I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!« achieved the business, and rendered her charming for the evening.
    It is true, a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the vanity of
wishing,
and the duty of
trying.
»As Rome,« it was suggested, »had not been built in a day, so neither had Mademoiselle Gérard Moore's education been completed in a week, or by merely
wishing
to be clever. It was effort that had accomplished that great work: she was ever remarkable for her perseverance, for her industry: her masters had remarked that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much talent united with so much solidity, and so on.« Once on the theme of her own merits, Mademoiselle was fluent.
    Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly shining lamp, gave now to the little parlour its best – its evening charm. It is probable that the three there present felt this charm: they all looked happy.
    »What shall we do now, Caroline?« asked Mr. Moore, returning to his seat beside his cousin.
    »What shall we do, Robert?« repeated she playfully. »You decide.«
    »Not play at chess?«
    »No.«
    »Nor draughts, nor backgammon?«
    »No – no; we both hate silent games that only keep one's hands employed, don't we?«
    »I believe we do: then, shall we talk scandal?«
    »About whom? Are we sufficiently interested in anybody to take a pleasure in pulling their character to pieces?«
    »A question that comes to the point. For my part – unamiable as it sounds – I must say, no.«
    »And I, too. But it is strange – though we want no third – fourth, I mean (she hastily and with contrition glanced at Hortense), living person among us – so selfish we are in our happiness – though we don't want to think of the present existing world, it would be pleasant to go back to the past; to hear people that have slept for generations in graves that are perhaps no longer graves now, but gardens and fields, speak to us and tell us their thoughts, and impart their ideas.«
    »Who shall be the speaker? What language shall he utter? French?«
    »Your French forefathers don't speak so sweetly, nor so solemnly, nor so impressively as your English ancestors, Robert. To-night you shall be entirely English: you shall read an English book.«
    »An old English book?«
    »Yes, an old English book, one that you like; and I will choose a part of it that is toned quite in harmony with something in you. It shall waken your nature, fill your mind with music: it shall pass like a skilful hand over your heart, and make its strings sound. Your heart is a lyre, Robert; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and touch it; you will see how he will draw the English power and melody out of its chords.«
    »I must read Shakspeare?«
    »You must have his spirit before you; you must hear his voice with your mind's ear; you must take some of his soul into yours.«
    »With a view to making me better; is it to operate like a sermon?«
    »It is to stir you; to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life strongly, not only your virtues, but your vicious, perverse points.«
    »Dieu! que dit-elle?« cried Hortense, who hitherto had been counting stitches in her knitting, and had not much attended to what was said, but whose ear these two strong words caught with a tweak.
    »Never mind her, sister: let her talk; now just let her say anything she pleases to-night. She likes to come down hard upon your brother sometimes; it amuses me, so let her alone.«
    Caroline, who, mounted on a chair, had been rummaging the book-case, returned with a book.
    »Here's Shakspeare,« she said, »and there's Coriolanus. Now, read, and discover by the feelings the reading will give you at once how low and how high you are.«
    »Come then, sit near me, and correct when I