“Well,” cried Charles, “that must all be because Barbadoes, and the other West India islands, are so much nearer the sun, and I cannot say I have any desire to be in such a hot neighbourhood.”

“No, Charles, that is not the reason; for although it is the fact, yet you cannot suppose that their difference can be perceptible, in that respect, to those heavenly bodies which appear to resemble only diamond sparks, from their immense distance. The brilliancy of which I speak arises from the greater purity of the air: we frequently see objects here through a kind of veil, which, though too thin to be perceptible, has yet its effect upon all objects: in some cases it alters, or rather bestows, a colour which does not properly belong to them; frequently impairs their form and beauty, but sometimes adds to their sublimity, and invests them with imposing greatness, proportioned to the obscurity with which they are enveloped.”

“I don’t understand all that Edmund says,” observed Ellen, “but I should be glad to know whether something is not the matter with the sun when it looks copper-colour like the lid of a stewpan; because in summer-time, I remember, when we were out in the fields, it used to be bright golden yellow, so glorious and full of shine, as it were, that looking at it, even for a moment, made my eyes ache, and thousands of black and green spots to come into them.”

“My dear Ellen, though you did not understand all the words I used, it is yet plain you did comprehend the sense, as you have brought forward an example of this effect of the atmosphere, which we all witness every day; the fogs and exhalations through which we view the sun are the cause of that dingy appearance you remark: and even in the summer-time, as the sun descends, you may perceive he becomes more and more red and dark as he approaches the horizon. I have therefore no doubt but the veil, or vapoury substance, of which I speak, is but a little distance from the earth; for I observe, that as the sun rises into the heavens, he grows more brilliant from surmounting this veil.”

“Did you find this out of yourself, Edmund?”

“I noticed it one day to papa, and he explained it; he told me, too, that all the beautiful variety of colours which we observe in the setting sun must be imputed to this cause; he taught me at the same time to distinguish shadows in the water by reflection, and those which are refracted, and many other things, which rendered me much more delighted with the country than I had ever been before, and more fond of dear papa for taking the trouble to inform me.”

“Well then,” said Ellen, “when we go down to Richmond next summer, you must explain every thing to us, and we will love you better than ever, dear Edmund; and I will say the Ode to Eton College to you in my very best manner; perhaps Matilda will be able to say it before then, and——”

“Go on, Ellen.”

“I want to know—we want to know what it means in that poem, where it says,