lovers who had lived at Grand-Pré, only a few miles distant from Hale's Turning, but under the spell of Mark's enthusiasm the old Norman days came to life and reminded him of his hereditary interest in their fate.
"Has a funny effect on you, poetry," Mark ventured, when the book had been closed and they were seated under the cherry tree in Aunt Verona's orchard. "Makes you feel sort of—more alive but all weak and runny too."
"And sad," added Paul.
"But nice sad—not gloomy."
"No, not gloomy. It's like music, kind of. Makes you feel serious but excited—and ready for something to happen . . . which usually doesn't," he added with precocious cynicism.
"Like cryin' because you're happy, the way women do."
"Men too, sometimes."
"I never seen a man cry."
"Werther did—often."
"Who's he?"
"In a German book. He killed himself at the end."
"You stay in Purgatory if you do that."
"Oh, pooh! That's what the priests say."
"Well, they know."
"You think they do, you mean. There's another thing I read, in a French book, that said something about priests in poetry. I remembered to tell you. It said:
Notre credulité fait toute leur science."
"Must a been a book of sin."
"Oh, you say that because you're narrow-minded. All Catholics are narrow-minded."
"Are they! What about you? You're narrow-
