Otherwise, when Venetia beheld her parents, she felt ethereal, and seemed to move in air; for her life, in spite of its apparent tranquillity, was to her all excitement.  She never looked upon her father, or heard his voice, without a thrill.  His society was as delightful as his heart was tender.  It seemed to her that she could listen to him for ever.  Every word he spoke was different from the language of other men; there was not a subject on which his richly-cultivated mind could not pour forth instantaneously a flood of fine fancies and deep intelligence.  He seemed to have read every book in every language, and to have mused over every line he had read.  She could not conceive how one, the tone of whose mind was so original that it suggested on every topic some conclusion that struck instantly by its racy novelty, could be so saturated with the learning and the views of other men.  Although they lived in unbroken solitude, and were almost always together, not a day passed that she did not find herself musing over some thought or expression of her father, and which broke from his mind without effort, and as if by chance.  Literature to Herbert was now only a source of amusement and engaging occupation.  All thought of fame had long fled his soul.  He cared not for being disturbed; and he would throw down his Plato for Don Quixote, or close his Aeschylus and take up a volume of Madame de Sevigne without a murmur, if reminded by anything that occurred of a passage which might contribute to the amusement and instruction of his wife and daughter.  Indeed, his only study now was to contribute to their happiness.  For him they had given up their country and society, and he sought, by his vigilant attention and his various accomplishments, to render their hours as light and pleasant as, under such circumstances, was possible.  His muse, too, was only dedicated to the celebration of any topic which their life or themselves suggested.  He loved to lie under the trees, and pour forth sonnets to Lady Annabel; and encouraged Venetia, by the readiness and interest with which he invariably complied with her intimations, to throw out every fancy which occurred to her for his verse.  A life passed without the intrusion of a single evil passion, without a single expression that was not soft, and graceful, and mild, and adorned with all the resources of a most accomplished and creative spirit, required not the distractions of society.  It would have shrunk from it, from all its artificial excitement and vapid reaction.  The days of the Herberts flowed on in one bright, continuous stream of love, and literature, and gentle pleasures.  Beneath them was the green earth, above them the blue sky.  Their spirits were as clear, and their hearts as soft as the clime.

The hour of twilight was approaching, and the family were preparing for their daily walk.  Their simple repast was finished, and Venetia held the verses which her father had written in the morning, and which he had presented to her.