It was a sultry day, and it was noon; so the boat crept slowly along by the shadow of the shore, and Cesarini drew from his breast-pocket some manuscripts of small and beautiful writing.

Who does not know the pains a young poet takes to bestow a fair dress on his darling rhymes! Cesarini read well and feelingly.

Everything was in favour of the reader.

His own poetical countenance--his voice, his enthusiasm, half-suppressed--the pre-engaged interest of the auditor--the dreamy loveliness of the hour and scene--( for there is a great deal as to time in these things).

Maltravers listened intently.