Harriet's cheerful look

Harriet's cheerful look and manner established hers: she came back, not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk of Mr. Elton. Miss Nash had been telling her something, which she repeated immediately with great delight. Mr. Perry had been to Mrs. Goddard's to attend a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash, that as he was coming back yesterday from Clayton Park, he had met Mr. Elton, and found to his great surprize, that Mr. Elton was actually on his road to London, and not meaning to return till the morrow, though it was the whist-club night, which he had been never known to miss before; and Mr. Perry had remonstrated with him about it, and told him how shabby it was in him, their best player, to absent himself, and tried very much to persuade him to put off his journey only one day; but it would not do; Mr. Elton had been determined to go on, and had said in a very particular way indeed, that he was going on business which he would not put off for any inducement in the world; and something about a very enviable commission, and being the bearer of something exceedingly precious. Mr. Perry could not quite understand him, but he was very sure there must be a lady in the case, and he told him so; and Mr. Elton only looked very conscious and smiling, and rode off in great spirits. Miss Nash had told her all this, and had talked a great deal more about Mr. Elton; and said, looking so very significantly at her, `that she did not pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only knew that any woman whom Mr. Elton could prefer, she should think the luckiest woman in the world; for, beyond a doubt, Mr. Elton had not his equal for beauty or agreeableness.'
CHAPTER IX
Mr. Knightley might quarrel with her, but Emma could not quarrel with herself. He was so much displeased, that it was longer than usual before he came to Hartfield again; and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but could not repent. On the contrary, her plans and proceedings were more and more justified and endeared to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The Picture, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Elton's return, and being hung over the mantelpiece of the common sitting-room, he got up to look at it, and sighed out his half sentences of admiration just as he ought; and as for Harriet's feelings, they were visibly forming themselves into as strong and steady an attachment as her youth and sort of mind admitted. Emma was soon perfectly satisfied of Mr. Martin's being no otherwise remembered, than as he furnished a contrast with Mr. Elton, of the utmost advantage to the latter.
Her views of improving her little friend's mind, by a great deal of useful reading and conversation, had never yet led to more than a few first chapters, and the intention of going on to-morrow. It was much easier to chat than to study; much pleasanter to let her imagination range and work at Harriet's fortune, than to be labouring to enlarge her comprehension or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary pursuit which engaged Harriet at present, the only mental provision she was making for the evening of life, was the collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with ciphers and trophies.
In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard's, had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse's help, to get a great many more. Emma assisted with her invention, memory and taste; and as Harriet wrote a very pretty hand, it was likely to be an arrangement of the first order, in form as well as quantity.
Mr. Woodhouse was almost as much interested in the business as the girls, and tried very often to recollect something worth their putting in. `So many clever riddles as there used to be when he was young - he wondered he could not remember them! but he hoped he should in time.' And it always ended in `Kitty, a fair but frozen maid.'

A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE

                                      1872

                     FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                           A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE

                           by Hans Christian Andersen

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    ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for

the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster

serenades the fragrant flowers.

    Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded

camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the

lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The

turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the

sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were

mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than

them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose

remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her

leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said,

"Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I

spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the

storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that

earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty

to bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself to

death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black

slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely

songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in

the wind.

    The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely

round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.

    It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had

undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was

a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant

lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in

a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his

fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of

the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rose

from the grave of Homer."

    Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind.

A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun

rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was

hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps

approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came

by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose,

pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the

home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower

now rests in his "Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say,

as he opens the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."