name.

And this creature of genius and of sorrow-whose existence he had only
learned by her song, and whose death created, in the simple heart of her
sister, so passionate a grief, after the lapse of so many years--supplied
to the romance awaking in his young heart the ideal which it
unconsciously sought. He was pleased to hear that she had been beautiful
and good. He paused from his books to muse on her, and picture her image
to his fancy. That there was some mystery in her fate was evident to
him; and while that conviction deepened his interest, the mystery itself
by degrees took a charm which he was not anxious to dispel. He resigned
himself to Mrs. Fairfield's obstinate silence. He was contented to rank
the dead amongst those holy and ineffable images which we do not seek to
unveil. Youth and Fancy have many secret hoards of idea which they do
not desire to impart, even to those most in their confidence. I doubt
the depth of feeling in any man who has not certain recesses in his soul
into which none may enter.

Hitherto, as I have said, the talents of Leonard Fairfield had been more
turned to things positive than to the ideal,--to science and
investigation of fact than to poetry, and that airier truth in which
poetry has its element. He had read our greater poets, indeed, but
without thought of imitating; and rather from the general curiosity to
inspect all celebrated monuments of the human mind than from that
especial predilection for verse which is too common in childhood and
youth to be any sure sign of a poet. But now these melodies, unknown to
all the world beside, rang in his ear, mingled with his thoughts,--set,
as it were, his whole life to music. He read poetry with a different
sentiment,--it seemed to him that he had discovered its secret. And so
reading, the passion seized him, and "the numbers came."