MISS LORRAINE succeeded in creating an interest in the literature lectures, and carried out her project with little difficulty, though not without encountering opposition. There were various individuals who, like Guy Lorraine, could not see what good the lectures were to do. Some of the elders declared that there were excitements enough for the young people as it was. If they wanted to improve their minds, why could they not read quietly at home instead of gadding out to lectures at the Town Hall? And the mention of Shakespeare in connection with the lectures alarmed these good people. Study Shakespeare, indeed! What could that foster but a love of play-acting and theatre-going?

Happily Miss Lorraine was not wanting in tact. She persuaded the friends who had formed themselves into a committee that Shakespeare must stand aside for the present. They must not begin by riding rough-shod over people's prejudices. No one could object to a course of lectures on Wordsworth and the poets of the Lake School. Let them begin with Wordsworth, and trust that in time the minds of certain persons at Woodham would become enlightened with respect to the value of Shakespeare as a teacher of truth.

Her advice was followed, and by the beginning of October, every available wall and hoarding about Woodham bore posters announcing the course of lectures on literature to be given at the Town Hall, on Thursday evenings, by John Glynne, B.A., of Trinity College, Cambridge. The novelty of the idea caused considerable excitement in the little town. Every one talked about the lectures, and the tickets were sold with a rapidity that surpassed the most sanguine hopes of the projectors of the scheme.

The first lecture proved a grand success. The Town Hall was full. Every person of importance at Woodham seemed to be there. Conspicuous in the front rank of seats, reserved for the committee, sat Miss Lorraine, her eyes sparkling with excitement, her whole face radiating satisfaction, as, with head turned towards the door, she watched the people pressing in, and welcomed her friends with nods and smiles.

Not far from her sat Aldyth, between Kitty and Hilda Bland. Aldyth's satisfaction was more quietly evinced; but her face was bright with subdued pleasure. She rather shrank from the eager whispers in which Kitty, whose head was turning in all directions, made her observations on every one who appeared.

To the no small astonishment of his cousin, Guy Lorraine was present, seated at the other side of Hilda, on whom he was bestowing a good deal of attention. Miss Lorraine had given her little musical party a fortnight earlier, and Guy had made Mr. Glynne's acquaintance. But the new tutor did not seem to have made a more favourable impression on him on that occasion than at first sight. Guy continued to find much to ridicule in him. Perhaps the interest which Aldyth and her friends manifested in Mr. Glynne, and their enthusiasm about the lectures, kindled in Guy some unconscious jealousy.

The lecturer had stepped on to the low platform; he had placed his manuscript on the reading desk, and was about to begin his lecture, when the arrival of a late-comer created such a stir in the audience as obliged him to wait for a few moments. A young lady, dressed in the most extreme style of fashionable attire, came sweeping down the room. She would have been pretty but for the elaborate "get up" by which she endeavoured to attract attention to herself. The mass of light, frizzy hair which shaded her eyes completely concealed any intellectual attraction her countenance might possess, and the pearl powder lavishly applied to it reduced her complexion to an unnatural deadness of hue, and rendered invisible the quick changes of colour, the subtle play of expression on which the charm of a woman's face largely depends.

But however others might criticize her, Miss Clara Dawtrey seemed fully satisfied with the result of the pains devoted to her toilet. It gave her pleasure to feel that all eyes were fixed on her as she passed down the room, pushing her way to the front, though it was obvious that there were no vacant seats in that direction. When at last she halted, with a dramatic air of dismay, within a few paces of the lecturer, a gentleman rose to give her his chair, and after a faint protest, she dropped languidly into it. The lecturer, who had been somewhat anxiously watching the movements of the young lady, cleared his brow and began to address the audience.

"Well," whispered Kitty, in Aldyth's ear, "I do hope Clara Dawtrey is satisfied with the sensation she has created. The idea of her coming to literature lectures!"

But Aldyth's eyes were on Mr. Glynne, and she was too anxious to lose no word to pay much heed to Kitty.

John Glynne was a good speaker. He had a full, deep, musical voice. He began his lecture in a calm, quiet manner, which was nevertheless impressive. But as he went on, he soon began to display the fire and energy of one who was keenly interested in the subject with which he had to deal. He was a young man, and might be expected to display some timidity in addressing a strange audience; but his manner was singularly fearless and unaffected. He appeared too much in earnest to be troubled with self-consciousness.

Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, no matter what the subject, and that one lecture was, to Aldyth Lorraine at least, a revelation of the man. It showed her that John Glynne was a religious man—religious in the highest and deepest meaning of the term, a large-hearted man, to whom all life was dear, one who could enjoy much, but one ever actuated by a strong, inflexible sense of duty.

The first lecture was introductory, dealing with the general character of the poetry of the age preceding the era of Wordsworth and Coleridge. There were a few earnest words concerning poetry, which stirred Aldyth's heart with delight.

"I will not attempt a definition of poetry," the lecturer said. "All definitions are alike inadequate; the subtle essence which makes the preciousness of poetry seems to escape us when we try to define it. But let it be said, once for all, that that cannot be poetry which is artificial in its nature, stilted, and affected. True poetry has an intimate relation to human life. It appeals to every heart of man, to the wayfarer as well as to the scholar; it touches the simplest details of homely life; it illumines the joys and sorrows which are the heritage of our common humanity. What would our life be worth if there were no poetry in it?

"Yet, even now, there are those who regard the poets as dreamers, and depreciate their value in comparison with that of the so-called 'men of action.' Dreamers! Yea, verily; but their visions uplift and strengthen us, and make our life more beautiful because more true. 'We are such stuff as dreams are made of.' We 'live in dreams;' and who shall say how much the great heroes of history and men of action in all ages have owed to the 'vision glorious' by which their poets stimulated them to noblest endeavour! Poetry is the highest possible expression of truth, and the true poet is the seer, the inspirer, the teacher of men. Let no one fear that the study of poetry will unfit men for practical life; it should rather make life more real and earnest, as it reveals the grand and the awful possibilities that lie before every soul of man."

Aldyth listened with joy to these words. Was the lecturer conscious of the soft liquid glow in the grey eyes fixed so earnestly on him? Did he see how absolutely beautiful Aldyth's countenance became as it caught and reflected his thought? Yes, for now and again his eyes met the full flash of glad intelligence that leaped into Aldyth's, and he spoke the better for knowing that he had one perfect listener.

The lecture over, the stir and bustle of departure arose in the hall. Everybody was discussing the lecture, and the general feeling seemed one of satisfaction. Guy Lorraine indeed yawned and stretched himself, and professed to be glad that the lecture was ended, thereby exciting the indignation of Hilda Bland, whose reproofs he seemed to enjoy.

"I am glad you were pleased," he said, "but for my part, I found it dull."

"Dull! I cannot believe you," said Hilda. "It was the greatest intellectual treat I have had for a long time."

"Well, I do not profess to be intellectual," replied Guy, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking as if he prided himself on the fact. "I suppose you are going to write the essay for Mr. Glynne."

"I shall try, certainly," said Hilda, "and I hope Aldyth will. I cannot answer for Kitty."

"I should think you might," said Kitty, overhearing her words. "I write an essay on the 'Character of Eighteenth Century Poetry'! I should pity Mr. Glynne if he had to read it. No, I am like you, Guy. I go in for what is practical. I am not a bookworm, like Hilda and Aldyth."

"Kitty, how can you talk like that after what you have heard to-night?" cried Hilda, in a tone of disgust.

But Kitty only laughed, and said that though she had enjoyed the lecture, she was not prepared to give her days and nights to the study of poetry for the sake of Mr. Glynne or any one else.

Clara Dawtrey was professing herself delighted with the lecture in loud tones, intended to reach the ear of the lecturer. But she saw to her annoyance that he was paying no attention to her. He had stepped from the platform and, having shaken hands with Miss Lorraine and received her congratulations, he was leaning across a bench to talk to her niece.

Aldyth's face still wore the glow of excitement. She was looking her best at that moment, when her face was radiant with spiritual light.

Clara saw the beauty, and it vexed her. She could have given no good reason for disliking Aldyth, but dislike her she did. Perhaps she was dimly conscious of the contrast that Aldyth in her simplicity and refinement presented to herself. Perhaps it was because Aldyth belonged to a different set—for the society of Woodham, like that of most little country towns, was composed of several cliques—and she suspected her of looking down upon herself. But she had no cause to think so of Aldyth. Kitty and Hilda Bland had not always been careful to veil their scorn of Clara Dawtrey's vulgarity and fastness; but Aldyth invariably treated the girl withe faultless though distant courtesy.

It annoyed Clara that Mr. Glynne should stand talking to Aldyth for some minutes.

"It is easy to see that Miss Aldyth Lorraine means to be Mr. Glynne's pet pupil," she observed to a young man with whom she was talking. "I write papers? No, thank you. I have no wish to compete with Miss Aldyth Lorraine."

Mr. Greenwood had invited Mr. Glynne to sup at his house after the lecture,—suppers, and not late dinners, were the fashion at Woodham. Mrs. Greenwood, who had no daughter, was pressing Miss Lorraine to come with Aldyth and make the supper more cheerful. Miss Lorraine yielded to her persuasions, so Clara Dawtrey, lingering about the hall to the last, had the chagrin of seeing Aldyth walk down the High Street to the banker's house accompanied by John Glynne, who sheltered her with his umbrella from the slight shower that was falling.

"Mr. Glynne," said Aldyth, as they walked together, "I am so glad you said what you did about poetry to-night. So many persons have the idea that poetry renders us dreamy and unpractical. Even my aunt, though, as you know, she is no enemy to culture, talks in that way sometimes. And Mrs. Bland vexes Hilda by trying to check her love of poetry; she seems to think it makes her sentimental and idle. And really Hilda is rather—"

Aldyth broke off suddenly. Loyalty to her friend seemed to forbid her to speak of her defects.

"I am glad you think I spoke to the point," said John Glynne, without appearing to observe Aldyth's abrupt pause. "Perhaps it is my mission here to teach some of my hearers the right use of poetry. Like every other blessing, it may be misused. It is the wine of life; but we may let it strengthen only our selfishness and vanity. There is always danger to the reflective mind of becoming absorbed in abstractions and notions which are never made fruitful—in a word, of cherishing sentimentality instead of true sentiments."

"That is it," said Aldyth, eagerly; "you have expressed what I have often thought."

"Yes," continued John Glynne, thoughtfully. "Poetry should not make us dreamy, useless, inert; it should rather stimulate us to the highest service, by making clear to us the true meaning of life—that man's blessedness does not consist in any material happiness, but in service, in doing his duty."

"Duty, ah, yes," said Aldyth, earnestly. "Do you know, I think I am beginning to understand the meaning of Wordsworth's 'Ode to Duty.' It used to puzzle me, but now I see the beauty of those words—

"'Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face.'"

They were passing beneath a street lamp, and looking up, Aldyth caught the strange, wistful glance with which her companion regarded her, ere he said, in low, grave tones—

"Are you indeed beginning to understand it? It takes a deal of learning. No one can rightly understand the poem who has not realized the whole force of that word 'stern' that the poet so aptly uses—'stern daughter,' 'stern lawgiver,' nor how essential to the bondman of duty is 'the spirit of self-sacrifice.'"

He spoke so seriously that Aldyth felt awed, and for a moment the gladness of her mood was checked. Would a time come in her life when Duty would wear no smile up her face, but assume the attitude of a stern, inexorable lawgiver, demanding the renunciation of happiness? They were at Mr. Greenwood's house. The light from the opening door fell on Aldyth's face, and showed the shadow there. But as she met John Glynne's quick comprehensive glance and reassuring smile, the shadow vanished, and Aldyth ran lightly up the steps.