Brooding. 151

 

he could gaze upon that wide blue moving plain
whose changes he seemed never tired of watching.

“Methinks he has not a book that interests him,”
said my master, kindly, as I moved and sighed un-
easily, not for the first time.

“Oh yes, sir, thank you ; the book is a delightful
one,’ I replied, holding up the copy of Ctzlde
flarold which, at Master George’s invitation, I had
selected from a heap that he had brought, tumbled
recklessly into his portmanteau among shirts and
fishing-tackle.

My master smiled as at a friend’s face, and re-
peated the beautiful stanzas beginning—

* Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll.”

I have never heard anyone read or recite poetry
better than my master ; he does it so simply, and yet
brings out the meaning so well. I listened with
pleasure as long as the music of the lines lasted, and
then began turning over Ciilde Harold that I might
find and read them again to myself. But long be-
fore I reached the fourth canto, that haunting
thought had mastered me again, “If I had behaved
better, all this would not have happened ;” and I
thought of my father wandering, outcast, exiled,
sinking still lower perhaps among low and evil
companions, and all because I, by my hard unsym-