The paper on the top was a translation of some grave French author into English, but underneath lay a sheet with stanzas; on this I laid hands.

Frances half rose, made a movement to recover the captured spoil, saying, that was nothing--a mere copy of verses.

I put by resistance with the decision I knew she never long opposed; but on this occasion her fingers had fastened on the paper.

I had quietly to unloose them; their hold dissolved to my touch; her hand shrunk away; my own would fain have followed it, but for the present I forbade such impulse.

The first page of the sheet was occupied with the lines I had overheard; the sequel was not exactly the writer's own experience, but a composition by portions of that experience suggested.
Thus while egotism was avoided, the fancy was exercised, and the heart satisfied.