But I have not yet introduced Arthur.  He is neither brother, cousin, nor fiance, but bound to us by almost brotherly ties, having been our playmate when we were little children; and after the death of his parents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artist wife), he became mamma’s ward, and was our constant companion in Italy and France.  Arthur has come on from Cambridge, where he has just taken his degree as a lawyer, to make us a visit of some weeks, and we have had much pleasure talking over with him those poetic days that we passed together in Florence and Venice.

But our life is never made up of talking and dreaming, delightful though it may be, and we have a certain amount of reading to do every day, which we despatch as conscientiously as we do our prayers.  There is no rule, however, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthur often relieves us of that duty.  I enjoy his reading very much, especially when one of Plato’s “Dialogues” is the lesson of the day, for into them he throws so much enthusiasm and dramatic force, that they are quite a revelation to me.  I was amused this morning, upon turning over the leaves of my journal of last winter, to find my first impressions of the “Dialogues” thus laconically expressed: 

“I have to-day commenced to read Plato aloud.  I cannot say that I find him very refreshing as yet; still I try to admire him as much as I conscientiously can.”

I must confess that at first the abstruse subtleties of Socrates and his brother logicians were too much for my little brain, but now that I am more familiar with them, I quite delight in following their arguments.  These “Dialogues” remind me of a fugue in musical composition; only melody is wanting to make the resemblance perfect, for here, as in the “Well-tempered Harpsichord,” one train of thought is taken up, viewed from every side and in every light—­that is to say, pursued through every possible key only to return and end at the original starting-point.

CHAPTER VIII.

Story-telling—­Mr. Greeley’s Father—­His Personal Appearance—­His Education—­A Fine Voice—­Mr. Greeley’s Mother—­A Handsome Woman—­How she is remembered in Vermont—­Field Labor—­Bankruptcy—­A Journey to Vermont—­School Days—­The Boy Horace—­How he entertained his Playmates—­His First Ball—­Separation from his Family.

June 25.

“What a delightful evening for story-telling!” said Gabrielle, as she listened to the heavy rain-drops falling upon the leaves of the old apple-tree; “will you not give us one, Aunt Esther?”

“Yes,” said Ida and Marguerite, drawing their chairs closer to mamma’s sofa.  “Do tell us about yourself when you were a young girl, and about grandpapa and grandmamma!”

“Ah,” said mamma, with a sigh, “you children have never known my dear parents!”

Marguerite was the only one of the young quartette who remembered having seen grandpapa, and her recollections of him were confused with memories of people in Europe, where our childhood was spent.