“Because you ‘love one bright, particular star,’ with your whole heart, Anthony.  The heart has a language of its own.  It speaks in music.  There are few that can comprehend its exquisite tones; but those who are so gifted are the best qualified to call them forth.  Love must have existed before Music.  The first sigh he breathed gave birth to melodious sounds.  The first words he spake were song; so Juliet tells us, in this little poem, and surely she is inspired.”

“What else have we here?” said Anthony, peeping into the portfolio and drawing out a sheet of paper.  “Is this bold energetic-looking hand my beautiful Juliet’s autograph?”

“You are disappointed, cousin Anthony.  You expected to find an elegant flowing hand, as fair and graceful as the white fingers that held the pen.  Now, be it known unto you, my wise cousin, that persons of genius, especially those who deal in rhymes, rarely write fine hands; their thoughts flow too rapidly to allow them the necessary time and care required to form perfect characters.  Most boarding-school misses write neat and graceful hands, but few of such persons are able to compose a truly elegant sentence.  The author thinks his ideas of more consequence than his autograph, which is but the mechanical process he employs to represent them on paper.”

“What sort of a hand do you write, Clary?”

“Why, cousin Anthony, it just hangs between the two extremes.  Not good enough to deserve much praise, nor bad enough to call forth much censure.  In this respect it corresponds more with my character than Juliet’s does.”

“You are no judge of your mental qualifications, Clary, and I am not going to make you vain by enumeration.  Can you compose music for this little ballad?” and he placed one before her.

“That?  Oh, no, I can do nothing with that.  But hark!  I hear my brother calling me from the house.  Let us go to him.”  She ran forward, and Anthony was about to follow her, when he was addressed in a rude familiar manner, and turning round, he beheld the burly form of William Mathews, leaning over the slight green paling that separated the lawn from the road.

“Good day to you, Mr. Anthony.  You have been hiding from us of late.  A pleasant place this.”

“Have you any business with me, Mr. Mathews?” said Anthony, in a voice, and with a look, which rendered his meaning unmistakeable.

“Ahem!  Not exactly.  But ’tis natural for one to inquire after the health of an old neighbor.  Are you living here, or with the old ’un?”

“Good morning, Mr. Mathews,” said Anthony, turning coldly upon his heel.  “I make a point of never answering impertinent questions.”

“Curse you for a proud fool,” muttered the ruffian, as Anthony entered the house.  “If Bill Mathews does not soon pull you down from your high horse, may his limbs rot in a jail.”  And calling to an ugly black cur, that was prowling round the garden, and whose physiognomy greatly resembled his own, the poacher slunk off.