For there is neither buske nor hay In May， that it n'ill shrouded bene， And it with new？leav閟 wrene；These wood閟 eke recoveren grene， That drie in winter ben to sene， And the erth waxeth proud withall， For swot？dewes that on it fall， And the poore estate forget， In which that winter had it set：
And than becomes the ground so proude， That it wol have a new？shroude， And maketh so queint his robe and faire， That it hath hewes an hundred paire， Of grasse and floures， of Ind and Pers， And many hew閟 full divers：
That is the robe I mean， ywis， Through which the ground to praisen is.
CHAUCER'S translation of the Romaunt of the Rose.
So passed the three days of rain. After breakfast the following morning， Hugh went to find Harry， according to custom， in the library. He was reading.
"What are you reading， Harry？" asked he.
"A poem，" said Harry； and， rising as before， he brought the book to Hugh. It was Mrs. Hemans's Poems.
"You are fond of poetry， Harry."
"Yes， very."
"Whose poems do you like best？"
"Mrs. Hemans's， of course. Don't you think she is the best， sir？""She writes very beautiful verses， Harry. Which poem are you reading now？""Oh！ one of my favourites--The Voice of Spring.""Who taught you to like Mrs. Hemans？"
"Euphra， of course."
"Will you read the poem to me？"
Harry began， and read the poem through， with much taste and evident enjoyment； an enjoyment which seemed， however， to spring more from the music of the thought and its embodiment in sound， than from sympathy with the forms of nature called up thereby. This was shown by his mode of reading， in which the music was everything， and the sense little or nothing. When he came to the line， "And the larch has hung all his tassels forth，"he smiled so delightedly， that Hugh said：
"Are you fond of the larch， Harry？"
"Yes， very."
"Are there any about here？"
"I don't know. What is it like？"
"You said you were fond of it."
"Oh， yes； it is a tree with beautiful tassels， you know. I think Ishould like to see one. Isn't it a beautiful line？""When you have finished the poem， we will go and see if we can find one anywhere in the woods. We must know where we are in the world， Harry--what is all round about us， you know.""Oh， yes，" said Harry； "let us go and hunt the larch.""Perhaps we shall meet Spring， if we look for her--perhaps hear her voice， too.""That would be delightful，" answered Harry， smiling. And away they went.
I may just mention here that Mrs. Hemans was allowed to retire gradually， till at last she was to be found only in the more inaccessible recesses of the library-shelves； while by that time Harry might be heard， not all over the house， certainly， but as far off as outside the closed door of the library， reading aloud to himself one or other of Macaulay's ballads， with an evident enjoyment of the go in it. A story with drum and trumpet accompaniment was quite enough， for the present， to satisfy Harry；and Macaulay could give him that， if little more.
As they went across the lawn towards the shrubbery， on their way to look for larches and Spring， Euphra joined them in walking dress.
It was a lovely morning.
"I have taken you at your word， you see， Mr. Sutherland，" said she.
"I don't want to lose my Harry quite."
"You dear kind Euphra！" said Harry， going round to her side and taking her hand. He did not stay long with her， however， nor did Euphra seem particularly to want him.
"There was one thing I ought to have mentioned to you the other night， Mr. Sutherland； and I daresay I should have mentioned it， had not Mr. Arnold interrupted our t阾e-？t阾e. I feel now as if I had been guilty of claiming far more than I have a right to， on the score of musical insight. I have Scotch blood in me， and was indeed born in Scotland， though I left it before I was a year old. My mother， Mr. Arnold's sister， married a gentleman who was half Sootch； and I was born while they were on a visit to his relatives， the Camerons of Lochnie. His mother， my grandmother， was a Bohemian lady， a countess with sixteen quarterings--not a gipsy， I beg to say."Hugh thought she might have been， to judge from present appearances.
But how was he to account for this torrent of genealogical information， into which the ice of her late constraint had suddenly thawed？ It was odd that she should all at once volunteer so much about herself. Perhaps she had made up one of those minds which need ****** up， every now and then， like a monthly magazine； and now was prepared to publish it. Hugh responded with a question：
"Do I know your name， then， at last？ You are Miss Cameron？""Euphrasia Cameron； at your service， sir." And she dropped a gay little courtesy to Hugh， looking up at him with a flash of her black diamonds.
"Then you must sing to me to-night."
"With all the pleasure in gipsy-land，" replied she， with a second courtesy， lower than the first； taking for granted， no doubt， his silent judgment on her person and complexion.
By this time they had reached the woods in a different quarter from that which Hugh had gone through the other day with Harry. And here， in very deed， the Spring met them， with a profusion of richness to which Hugh was quite a stranger. The ground was carpeted with primroses， and anemones， and other spring flowers， which are the loveliest of all flowers. They were drinking the sunlight， which fell upon them through the budded boughs. By the time the light should be hidden from them by the leaves， which are the clouds of the lower firmament of the woods， their need of it would be gone： exquisites in living， they cared only for the delicate morning of the year.
