Some I could see to bear the marks of constant study; others had been torn across and tossed aside as if in petulance or disapproval.

Lastly, as I cruised about that empty chamber, I espied some papers written upon with pencil on a table near the window.

An unthinking curiosity led me to take one up.

It bore a copy of verses, very roughly metred in the original Spanish, and which I may render somewhat thus-- Pleasure approached with pain and shame, Grief with a wreath of lilies came.
Pleasure showed the lovely sun; Jesu dear, how sweet it shone! Grief with her worn hand pointed on, Jesu dear, to thee! Shame and confusion at once fell on me; and, laying down the paper, I beat an immediate retreat from the apartment.

Neither Felipe nor his mother could have read the books nor written these rough but feeling verses.