He infused his own soul into the soul of the author, and brought out his deepest meanings.

When he read poetry I sat like one entranced, bound by the double spell of genius and music.

Mrs.
Linwood could sew; Edith could sew or net, but I could do nothing but listen.

I could feel the blood tingling to my finger ends, the veins throbbing in my temples, and the color coming and going in my cheek.
"You love poetry," said he once, pausing, and arresting my fascinated glance.
"Love it," I exclaimed, sighing in the fulness of delight, "it is the passion of my soul." "You have three passions, music, flowers, and poetry," said he, with a smile that seemed to mock the extravagance of my language, "which is the regal one, the passion of passions ?" "I can hardly imagine the existence of one without the other," I answered, "their harmony is so entire; flowers are silent poetry, and poetry is written music." "And music ?" he asked.
"Is the breath of heaven, the language of angels.

As the voice of Echo lingered in the woods, where she loved to wander, when her beauteous frame had vanished, so music remains to show the angel nature we have lost." I blushed at having said so much, but the triune passion warmed my soul.
"Gabriella is a poetess herself," said Edith, "and may well speak of the magic of numbers.