of thankfulness which is voiceless in its intensity. Tennyson got nearer to expressing it than any one in that beautiful St. Agnes' Eve of his—a little gem which, with its simplicity and fervour, is worth far more than Keats's poem with all its literary art."
"It is good to feel like that sometimes," she answered; "but it is well, I think, not to get into the way of inducing such feelings. The human brain is such a sensitive thing that one can get into the way of drugging it with emotion, as it were. I think I am tinged a little with the North-country spirit. I always think of Newman's wonderful lines—
"'The thoughts control that o'er thee swell and throng;
They will condense within the soul and turn to purpose strong.
But he who lets his feelings run in soft luxurious flow,
Shrinks when hard service must be done, and faints at every blow.'
"I only quote from memory. But you look tired, dear boy; you are rather white. Have you been overworking?"
He did not answer immediately.
"No," he said slowly, "but I've been having a long talk with the vicar. We were talking about Mr. Schuabe and his influence. Helena, that man is the most active of God's enemies in England. Almost when I was mentioning his name, by some coincidence, or perhaps for some deeper, more mysterious, psychical reason which men do not yet understand, the maid announced him. He had come to see your father on business, and—don't think I am unduly fanciful—the Murillo photograph, the head of Christ, on the mantel-shelf, fell down and was broken. He is here still, I think."
"Yes," said Helena; "Mr. Schuabe is in the study with father. But, Basil dear, it's quite evident to me
