Verbal Expression

by Edgar Allan Poe
  Thank Heaven! the crisis–
    The danger is past,
  And the lingering illness
    Is over at last–
  And the fever called “Living”
    Is conquered at last.

  Sadly, I know,
    I am shorn of my strength,
  And no muscle I move
    As I lie at full length–
  But no matter!–I feel
    I am better at length.

  And I rest so composedly,
    Now in my bed,
  That any beholder
    Might fancy me dead–
  Might start at beholding me
    Thinking me dead.

  The moaning and groaning,
    The sighing and sobbing,
  Are quieted now,
    With that horrible throbbing
  At heart:–ah, that horrible,
    Horrible throbbing!

  The sickness–the nausea–
    The pitiless pain–
  Have ceased, with the fever
    That maddened my brain–
  With the fever called “Living”
    That burned in my brain.

  And oh! of all tortures
    _That_ torture the worst
  Has abated–the terrible
    Torture of thirst,
  For the naphthaline river
    Of Passion accurst:–
  I have drank of a water
    That quenches all thirst:–

  Of a water that flows,
    With a lullaby sound,
  From a spring but a very few
    Feet under ground–
  From a cavern not very far
    Down under ground.

  And ah! let it never
    Be foolishly said
  That my room it is gloomy
    And narrow my bed–
  For man never slept
    In a different bed;
  And, to _sleep_, you must slumber
    In just such a bed.

  My tantalized spirit
    Here blandly reposes,
  Forgetting, or never
    Regretting its roses–
  Its old agitations
    Of myrtles and roses:

  For now, while so quietly
    Lying, it fancies
  A holier odor
    About it, of pansies–
  A rosemary odor,
    Commingled with pansies–
  With rue and the beautiful
    Puritan pansies.

  And so it lies happily,
    Bathing in many
  A dream of the truth
    And the beauty of Annie–
  Drowned in a bath
    Of the tresses of Annie.

  She tenderly kissed me,
    She fondly caressed,
  And then I fell gently
    To sleep on her breast–
  Deeply to sleep
    From the heaven of her breast.

  When the light was extinguished,
    She covered me warm,
  And she prayed to the angels
    To keep me from harm–
  To the queen of the angels
    To shield me from harm.

  And I lie so composedly,
    Now in my bed
  (Knowing her love)
    That you fancy me dead–
  And I rest so contentedly,
    Now in my bed,
  (With her love at my breast)
    That you fancy me dead–
  That you shudder to look at me.
    Thinking me dead.

  But my heart it is brighter
    Than all of the many
  Stars in the sky,
    For it sparkles with Annie–
  It glows with the light
    Of the love of my Annie–
  With the thought of the light
    Of the eyes of my Annie.

by Edgar Allan Poe
  In spring of youth it was my lot
  To haunt of the wide world a spot
  The which I could not love the less–
  So lovely was the loneliness
  Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
  And the tall pines that towered around.

  But when the Night had thrown her pall
  Upon the spot, as upon all,
  And the mystic wind went by
  Murmuring in melody–
  Then–ah, then, I would awake
  To the terror of the lone lake.

  Yet that terror was not fright,
  But a tremulous delight–
  A feeling not the jewelled mine
  Could teach or bribe me to define–
  Nor Love–although the Love were thine.

  Death was in that poisonous wave,
  And in its gulf a fitting grave
  For him who thence could solace bring
  To his lone imagining–
  Whose solitary soul could make
  An Eden of that dim lake.

by Eleanor H. Porter
AUNT HANNAH GETS A LETTER
In the cozy living-room at Hillside, Billy Neilson’s
pretty home on Corey Hill, Billy herself sat
writing at the desk.  Her pen had just traced the
date, “October twenty-fifth,” when Mrs. Stetson
entered with a letter in her hand.

“Writing, my dear?  Then don’t let me disturb
you.”  She turned as if to go.

Billy dropped her pen, sprang to her feet, flew
to the little woman’s side and whirled her half
across the room.

“There!” she exclaimed, as she plumped the
breathless and scandalized Aunt Hannah into the
biggest easy chair.  “I feel better.  I just had to
let off steam some way.  It’s so lovely you came
in just when you did!”

“Indeed! I–I’m not so sure of that,” stammered
the lady, dropping the letter into her lap,
and patting with agitated fingers her cap, her
curls, the two shawls about her shoulders, and the
lace at her throat.  “My grief and conscience,
Billy!  Wors’t you _ever_ grow up?”

“Hope not,” purred Billy cheerfully, dropping
herself on to a low hassock at Aunt Hannah’s feet.

“But, my dear, you–you’re engaged!”

Billy bubbled into a chuckling laugh.

“As if I didn’t know that, when I’ve just written
a dozen notes to announce it!  And, oh, Aunt
Hannah, such a time as I’ve had, telling what a
dear Bertram is, and how I love, love, _love_ him,
and what beautiful eyes he has, and _such_ a nose,
and–”

“Billy!”  Aunt Hannah was sitting erect in
pale horror.

“Eh?” Billy’s eyes were roguish.

“You didn’t write that in those notes!”

“Write it?  Oh, no!  That’s only what I _wanted_
to write,” chuckled Billy.  “What I really did
write was as staid and proper as–here, let me
show you,” she broke off, springing to her feet and
running over to her desk.  “There! this is about
what I wrote to them all,” she finished, whipping
a note out of one of the unsealed envelopes on the
desk and spreading it open before Aunt Hannah’s
suspicious eyes.

“Hm-m; that is very good–for you,” admitted
the lady.

“Well, I like that!–after all my stern self-
control and self-sacrifice to keep out all those
things I _wanted_ to write,” bridled Billy.  “Besides,
they’d have been ever so much more interesting
reading than these will be,” she pouted, as
she took the note from her companion’s hand.

“I don’t doubt it,” observed Aunt Hannah,
dryly.

Billy laughed, and tossed the note back on the
desk.

“I’m writing to Belle Calderwell, now,” she
announced musingly, dropping herself again on
the hassock.  “I suppose she’ll tell Hugh.”

“Poor boy!  He’ll be disappointed.”

Billy sighed, but she uptilted her chin a little.

“He ought not to be.  I told him long, long ago,
the very first time, that–that I couldn’t.”

“I know, dear; but–they don’t always
understand.”  Aunt Hannah sighed in sympathy
with the far-away Hugh Calderwell, as she looked
down at the bright young face near her.

There was a moment’s silence; then Billy gave
a little laugh.

“He _will_ be surprised,” she said.  “He told
me once that Bertram wouldn’t ever care for any
girl except to paint.  To paint, indeed!  As if Bertram
didn’t love me–just _me!_–if he never saw
another tube of paint!”

“I think he does, my dear.”

Again there was silence; then, from Billy’s lips
there came softly:

“Just think; we’ve been engaged almost four
weeks–and to-morrow it’ll be announced.  I’m
so glad I didn’t ever announce the other
two!”

“The other _two!_” cried Aunt Hannah.

Billy laughed.

“Oh, I forgot.  You didn’t know about Cyril.”

“Cyril!”

“Oh, there didn’t anybody know it, either
not even Cyril himself,” dimpled Billy, mischievously.
“I just engaged myself to him in imagination,
you know, to see how I’d like it.  I didn’t
like it.  But it didn’t last, anyhow, very long–
just three weeks, I believe.  Then I broke it off,”
she finished, with unsmiling mouth, but dancing
eyes.

“Billy!” protested Aunt Hannah, feebly.

“But I _am_ glad only the family knew about
my engagement to Uncle William–oh, Aunt
Hannah, you don’t know how good it does seem
to call him `Uncle’ again.  It was always slipping
out, anyhow, all the time we were engaged; and
of course it was awful then.”

“That only goes to prove, my dear, how
entirely unsuitable it was, from the start.”

A bright color flooded Billy’s face.

“I know; but if a girl _will_ think a man is asking
for a wife when all he wants is a daughter, and if
she blandly says `Yes, thank you, I’ll marry you,’
I don’t know what you can expect!”

“You can expect just what you got–misery,
and almost a tragedy,” retorted Aunt Hannah,
severely.

A tender light came into Billy’s eyes.

“Dear Uncle William!  What a jewel he was,
all the way through!  And he’d have marched
straight to the altar, too, with never a flicker of
an eyelid, I know–self-sacrificing martyr that
he was!”

“Martyr!” bristled Aunt Hannah, with
extraordinary violence for her.  “I’m thinking that
term belonged somewhere else.  A month ago,
Billy Neilson, you did not look as if you’d live
out half your days.  But I suppose _you’d_ have
gone to the altar, too, with never a flicker of an
eyelid!”

“But I thought I had to,” protested Billy.
“I couldn’t grieve Uncle William so, after Mrs.
Hartwell had said how he–he wanted me.”

Aunt Hannah’s lips grew stern at the corners.

“There are times when–when I think it
would be wiser if Mrs. Kate Hartwell would attend
to her own affairs!” Aunt Hannah’s voice
fairly shook with wrath.

“Why-Aunt Hannah!” reproved Billy in
mischievous horror.  “I’m shocked at you!”

Aunt Hannah flushed miserably.

“There, there, child, forget I said it.  I ought
not to have said it, of course,” she murmured agitatedly.

Billy laughed.

“You should have heard what Uncle William
said!  But never mind.  We all found out the mistake
before it was too late, and everything is
lovely now, even to Cyril and Marie.  Did you
ever see anything so beatifically happy as that
couple are?  Bertram says he hasn’t heard a dirge
from Cyril’s rooms for three weeks; and that if
anybody else played the kind of music he’s been
playing, it would be just common garden ragtime!”

“Music!  Oh, my grief and conscience!  That
makes me think, Billy.  If I’m not actually
forgetting what I came in here for,” cried Aunt
Hannah, fumbling in the folds of her dress for the
letter that had slipped from her lap.  “I’ve had
word from a young niece.  She’s going to study
music in Boston.”

“A niece?”

“Well, not really, you know.  She calls me
`Aunt,’ just as you and the Henshaw boys do.
But I really am related to _her_, for her mother and
I are third cousins, while it was my husband who
was distantly related to the Henshaw family.”

“What’s her name?”

“ `Mary Jane Arkwright.’  Where is that
letter?”

“Here it is, on the floor,” reported Billy.
“Were you going to read it to me?” she asked,
as she picked it up.

“Yes–if you don’t mind.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“Then I’ll read it.  It–it rather annoys me
in some ways.  I thought the whole family understood
that I wasn’t living by myself any longer
–that I was living with you.  I’m sure I thought
I wrote them that, long ago.  But this sounds
almost as if they didn’t understand it–at least,
as if this girl didn’t.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know; but she must be some old, to
be coming here to Boston to study music, alone
–singing, I think she said.”

“You don’t remember her, then?”

Aunt Hannah frowned and paused, the letter
half withdrawn from its envelope.

“No–but that isn’t strange.  They live West.
I haven’t seen any of them for years.  I know there
are several children–and I suppose I’ve been
told their names.  I know there’s a boy–the
eldest, I think–who is quite a singer, and there’s
a girl who paints, I believe; but I don’t seem to
remember a `Mary Jane.’ ”

“Never mind!  Suppose we let Mary Jane speak
for herself,” suggested Billy, dropping her chin
into the small pink cup of her hand, and settling
herself to listen.

“Very well,” sighed Aunt Hannah; and she
opened the letter and began to read.
“DEAR AUNT HANNAH:–This is to tell you
that I’m coming to Boston to study singing in
the school for Grand Opera, and I’m planning to
look you up.  Do you object?  I said to a friend
the other day that I’d half a mind to write to Aunt
Hannah and beg a home with her; and my friend
retorted:  `Why don’t you, Mary Jane?’  But
that, of course, I should not think of doing.

“But I know I shall be lonesome, Aunt Hannah,
and I hope you’ll let me see you once in a
while, anyway.  I plan now to come next week
–I’ve already got as far as New York, as you see
by the address–and I shall hope to see you
soon.

“All the family would send love, I know.
                         “M. J. ARKWRIGHT.”
“Grand Opera!  Oh, how perfectly lovely,”
cried Billy.

“Yes, but Billy, do you think she is expecting
me to invite her to make her home with me?  I
shall have to write and explain that I can’t–
if she does, of course.”

Billy frowned and hesitated.

“Why, it sounded–a little–that way;
but–”  Suddenly her face cleared.  “Aunt
Hannah, I’ve thought of the very thing.  We _will_
take her!”

“Oh, Billy, I couldn’t think of letting you do
that,” demurred Aunt Hannah.  “You’re very
kind–but, oh, no; not that!”

“Why not?  I think it would be lovely; and
we can just as well as not.  After Marie is married
in December, she can have that room.  Until
then she can have the little blue room next to me.”

“But–but–we don’t know anything about
her.”

“We know she’s your niece, and she’s lonesome;
and we know she’s musical.  I shall love her for
every one of those things.  Of course we’ll take
her!”

“But–I don’t know anything about her age.”

“All the more reason why she should be looked
out for, then,” retorted Billy, promptly.  “Why,
Aunt Hannah, just as if you didn’t want to give
this lonesome, unprotected young girl a home!”

“Oh, I do, of course; but–”

“Then it’s all settled,” interposed Billy,
springing to her feet.

“But what if we–we shouldn’t like her?”

“Nonsense!  What if she shouldn’t like us?”
laughed Billy.  “However, if you’d feel better,
just ask her to come and stay with us a month.
We shall keep her all right, afterwards.  See if we
don’t!”

Slowly Aunt Hannah got to her feet.

“Very well, dear.  I’ll write, of course, as you
tell me to; and it’s lovely of you to do it.  Now
I’ll leave you to your letters.  I’ve hindered you
far too long, as it is.”

“You’ve rested me,” declared Billy, flinging
wide her arms.

Aunt Hannah, fearing a second dizzying whirl
impelled by those same young arms, drew her
shawls about her shoulders and backed hastily
toward the hall door.

Billy laughed.

“Oh, I won’t again–to-day,” she promised
merrily.  Then, as the lady reached the arched
doorway:  “Tell Mary Jane to let us know the
day and train and we’ll meet her.  Oh, and Aunt
Hannah, tell her to wear a pink–a white pink;
and tell her we will, too,” she finished gayly.

    The Sun came up upon the right,
      Out of the Sea came he;
    And broad as a weft upon the left
      Went down into the Sea.

    And the good south wind still blew behind,
      But no sweet Bird did follow
    Ne any day for food or play
      Came to the Marinere’s hollo!

    And I had done an hellish thing
      And it would work ‘em woe:
    For all averr’d, I had kill’d the Bird
      That made the Breeze to blow.

    Ne dim ne red, like God’s own head,
      The glorious Sun uprist:
    Then all averr’d, I had kill’d the Bird
      That brought the fog and mist.
    ‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay
      That bring the fog and mist.

    The breezes blew, the white foam flew,
      The furrow follow’d free:
    We were the first that ever burst
      Into that silent Sea.

    Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down,
      ‘Twas sad as sad could be
    And we did speak only to break
      The silence of the Sea.

    All in a hot and copper sky
      The bloody sun at noon,
    Right up above the mast did stand,
      No bigger than the moon.

    Day after day, day after day,
      We stuck, ne breath ne motion,
    As idle as a painted Ship
      Upon a painted Ocean.

    Water, water, every where
      And all the boards did shrink;
    Water, water, every where,
      Ne any drop to drink.

    The very deeps did rot: O Christ!
      That ever this should be!
    Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
      Upon the slimy Sea.

    About, about, in reel and rout
      The Death-fires danc’d at night;
    The water, like a witch’s oils,
      Burnt green and blue and white.

    And some in dreams assured were
      Of the Spirit that plagued us so:
    Nine fathom deep he had follow’d us
      From the Land of Mist and Snow.

    And every tongue thro’ utter drouth
      Was wither’d at the root;
    We could not speak no more than if
      We had been choked with soot.

    Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks
      Had I from old and young;
    Instead of the Cross the Albatross
      About my neck was hung.

by Vincent van Gogh

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes,
Not with flatteries, but truths,
Which tarnish not, but purify
To light which dims the morning’s eye.
I have come from the spring-woods,
From the fragrant solitudes;–
Listen what the poplar-tree
And murmuring waters counselled me.

If with love thy heart has burned;
If thy love is unreturned;
Hide thy grief within thy breast,
Though it tear thee unexpressed;
For when love has once departed
From the eyes of the false-hearted,
And one by one has torn off quite
The bandages of purple light;
Though thou wert the loveliest
Form the soul had ever dressed,
Thou shalt seem, in each reply,
A vixen to his altered eye;
Thy softest pleadings seem too bold,
Thy praying lute will seem to scold;
Though thou kept the straightest road,
Yet thou errest far and broad.

But thou shalt do as do the gods
In their cloudless periods;
For of this lore be thou sure,–
Though thou forget, the gods, secure,
Forget never their command,
But make the statute of this land.
As they lead, so follow all,
Ever have done, ever shall.
Warning to the blind and deaf,
‘T is written on the iron leaf,
_Who drinks of Cupid’s nectar cup_
_Loveth downward, and not up;_
He who loves, of gods or men,
Shall not by the same be loved again;
His sweetheart’s idolatry
Falls, in turn, a new degree.
When a god is once beguiled
By beauty of a mortal child
And by her radiant youth delighted,
He is not fooled, but warily knoweth
His love shall never be requited.
And thus the wise Immortal doeth,–
‘T is his study and delight
To bless that creature day and night;
From all evils to defend her;
In her lap to pour all splendor;
To ransack earth for riches rare,
And fetch her stars to deck her hair:
He mixes music with her thoughts,
And saddens her with heavenly doubts:
All grace, all good his great heart knows,
Profuse in love, the king bestows,
Saying, ‘Hearken! Earth, Sea, Air!
This monument of my despair
Build I to the All-Good, All-Fair.
Not for a private good,
But I, from my beatitude,
Albeit scorned as none was scorned,
Adorn her as was none adorned.
I make this maiden an ensample
To Nature, through her kingdoms ample,
Whereby to model newer races,
Statelier forms and fairer faces;
To carry man to new degrees
Of power and of comeliness.
These presents be the hostages
Which I pawn for my release.
See to thyself, O Universe!
Thou art better, and not worse.’–
And the god, having given all,
Is freed forever from his thrall.

by Edward Doyle

And so they sit in spiritual darkness and curse life and doubt God. But
here is a great soul who has found his divine self in the darkness and
who sends out this wonderful song of joy and gratitude.

Read it, oh, ye weak repiners, and read it again and again. It is
beautiful in thought, perfect in expression and glorious with truth.

by Walter de la Mare
They told me Pan was dead, but I
  Oft marvelled who it was that sang
Down the green valleys languidly
  Where the grey elder-thickets hang.

Sometimes I thought it was a bird
  My soul had charged with sorcery;
Sometimes it seemed my own heart heard
  Inland the sorrow of the sea.

But even where the primrose sets
  The seal of her pale loveliness,
I found amid the violets
  Tears of an antique bitterness.

by Edgar Allan Poe
  Dim vales–and shadowy floods–
  And cloudy-looking woods,
  Whose forms we can’t discover
  For the tears that drip all over
  Huge moons there wax and wane–
  Again–again–again–
  Every moment of the night–
  Forever changing places–
  And they put out the star-light
  With the breath from their pale faces.
  About twelve by the moon-dial
  One more filmy than the rest
  (A kind which, upon trial,
  They have found to be the best)
  Comes down–still down–and down
  With its centre on the crown
  Of a mountain’s eminence,
  While its wide circumference
  In easy drapery falls
  Over hamlets, over halls,
  Wherever they may be–
  O’er the strange woods–o’er the sea–
  Over spirits on the wing–
  Over every drowsy thing–
  And buries them up quite
  In a labyrinth of light–
  And then, how deep!–O, deep!
  Is the passion of their sleep.
  In the morning they arise,
  And their moony covering
  Is soaring in the skies,
  With the tempests as they toss,
  Like–almost any thing–
  Or a yellow Albatross.
  They use that moon no more
  For the same end as before–
  Videlicet a tent–
  Which I think extravagant:
  Its atomies, however,
  Into a shower dissever,
  Of which those butterflies,
  Of Earth, who seek the skies,
  And so come down again
  (Never-contented thing!)
  Have brought a specimen
  Upon their quivering wings.

by Eleanor H. Porter

CALDERWELL DOES SOME TALKING
Calderwell had met Mr. M. J. Arkwright in
London through a common friend; since then
they had tramped half over Europe together in a
comradeship that was as delightful as it was unusual.
As Calderwell put it in a letter to his sister, Belle:

“We smoke the same cigar and drink the same
tea (he’s just as much of an old woman on that
subject as I am!), and we agree beautifully on
all necessary points of living, from tipping to late
sleeping in the morning; while as for politics and
religion–we disagree in those just enough to
lend spice to an otherwise tame existence.”

Farther along in this same letter Calderwell
touched upon his new friend again.

“I admit, however, I would like to know his
name.  To find out what that mysterious `M. J.’
stands for has got to be pretty nearly an obsession
with me.  I am about ready to pick his pocket or
rifle his trunk in search of some lurking `Martin’
or `John’ that will set me at peace.  As it is, I
confess that I have ogled his incoming mail and
his outgoing baggage shamelessly, only to be
slapped in the face always and everlastingly by
that bland `M. J.’  I’ve got my revenge, now,
though.  To myself I call him `Mary Jane’–
and his broad-shouldered, brown-bearded six feet
of muscular manhood would so like to be called
`Mary Jane’!  By the way, Belle, if you ever
hear of murder and sudden death in my direction,
better set the sleuths on the trail of Arkwright.
Six to one you’ll find I called him `Mary Jane’
to his face!”

Calderwell was thinking of that letter now, as
he sat at a small table in a Paris caf<e’>.  Opposite
him was the six feet of muscular manhood, broad
shoulders, pointed brown beard, and all–and he
had just addressed it, inadvertently, as “Mary
Jane.”

During the brief, sickening moment of silence
after the name had left his lips, Calderwell was
conscious of a whimsical realization of the lights,
music, and laughter all about him.

“Well, I chose as safe a place as I could!” he
was thinking.  Then Arkwright spoke.

“How long since you’ve been in correspondence
with members of my family?”

“Eh?”

Arkwright laughed grimly.

“Perhaps you thought of it yourself, then–
I’ll admit you’re capable of it,” he nodded, reaching
for a cigar.  “But it so happens you hit upon
my family’s favorite name for me.”

“_Mary Jane!_  You mean they actually _call_
you that?”

“Yes,” bowed the big fellow, calmly, as he
struck a light.  “Appropriate!–don’t you
think?”

Calderwell did not answer.  He thought he
could not.

“Well, silence gives consent, they say,” laughed
the other.  “Anyhow, you must have had _some_
reason for calling me that.”

“Arkwright, what _does_ `M. J.’ stand for?”
demanded Calderwell.

“Oh, is that it?” smiled the man opposite.
“Well, I’ll own those initials have been something
of a puzzle to people.  One man declares they’re
`Merely Jokes’; but another, not so friendly, says
they stand for `Mostly Jealousy’ of more fortunate
chaps who have real names for a handle.  My
small brothers and sisters, discovering, with the
usual perspicacity of one’s family on such matters,
that I never signed, or called myself anything but
`M. J.,’ dubbed me `Mary Jane.’  And there you
have it.”

“Mary Jane!  You!”

Arkwright smiled oddly.

“Oh, well, what’s the difference?  Would you
deprive them of their innocent amusement?  And
they do so love that `Mary Jane’!  Besides,
what’s in a name, anyway?” he went on, eyeing
the glowing tip of the cigar between his fingers.
“ `A rose by any other name–’–you’ve heard
that, probably.  Names don’t always signify, my
dear fellow.  For instance, I know a `Billy’–but
he’s a girl.”

Calderwell gave a sudden start.

“You don’t mean Billy–Neilson?”

The other turned sharply.

“Do _you_ know Billy Neilson?”

Calderwell gave his friend a glance from
scornful eyes.

“Do I know Billy Neilson?” he cried.  “Does
a fellow usually know the girl he’s proposed to
regularly once in three months?  Oh, I know I’m
telling tales out of school, of course,” he went on,
in response to the look that had come into the
brown eyes opposite.  “But what’s the use?
Everybody knows it–that knows us.  Billy herself
got so she took it as a matter of course–and
refused as a matter of course, too; just as she
would refuse a serving of apple pie at dinner, if
she hadn’t wanted it.”

“Apple pie!” scouted Arkwright.

Calderwell shrugged his shoulders.

“My dear fellow, you don’t seem to realize it,
but for the last six months you have been assisting
at the obsequies of a dead romance.”

“Indeed!  And is it–buried, yet?”

“Oh, no,” sighed Calderwell, cheerfully.  “I
shall go back one of these days, I’ll warrant, and
begin the same old game again; though I will
acknowledge that the last refusal was so very
decided that it’s been a year, almost, since I received
it.  I think I was really convinced, for a while,
that–that she didn’t want that apple pie,” he
finished with a whimsical lightness that did not
quite coincide with the stern lines that had come
to his mouth.

For a moment there was silence, then Calderwell
spoke again.

“Where did you know–Miss Billy?”

“Oh, I don’t know her at all.  I know of her–
through Aunt Hannah.”

Calderwell sat suddenly erect.

“Aunt Hannah!  Is she your aunt, too?
Jove!  This _is_ a little old world, after all; isn’t
it?”

“She isn’t my aunt.  She’s my mother’s third
cousin.  None of us have seen her for years, but
she writes to mother occasionally; and, of course,
for some time now, her letters have been running
over full of Billy.  She lives with her, I believe;
doesn’t she?”

“She does,” rejoined Calderwell, with an
unexpected chuckle.  “I wonder if you know how she
happened to live with her, at first.”

“Why, no, I reckon not.  What do you mean?”

Calderwell chuckled again.

“Well, I’ll tell you.  You, being a `Mary Jane,’
ought to appreciate it.  You see, Billy was named
for one William Henshaw, her father’s chum,
who promptly forgot all about her.  At eighteen,
Billy, being left quite alone in the world, wrote to
`Uncle William’ and asked to come and live with
him.”

“Well?”

“But it wasn’t well.  William was a forty-year-
old widower who lived with two younger brothers,
an old butler, and a Chinese cook in one of those
funny old Beacon Street houses in Boston.  `The
Strata,’ Bertram called it.  Bright boy–Bertram!”

“The Strata!”

“Yes.  I wish you could see that house,
Arkwright.  It’s a regular layer cake.  Cyril–he’s
the second brother; must be thirty-four or five
now–lives on the top floor in a rugless, curtainless,
music-mad existence–just a plain crank.
Below him comes William.  William collects things
–everything from tenpenny nails to teapots, I
should say, and they’re all there in his rooms.
Farther down somewhere comes Bertram.  He’s
_the_ Bertram Henshaw, you understand; the artist.”

“Not the `Face-of-a-Girl’ Henshaw?”

“The same; only of course four years ago he
wasn’t quite so well known as he is now.  Well, to
resume and go on.  It was into this house, this
masculine paradise ruled over by Pete and Dong
Ling in the kitchen, that Billy’s na<i:>ve request for
a home came.”

“Great Scott!” breathed Arkwright, appreciatively.

“Yes.  Well, the letter was signed `Billy.’
They took her for a boy, naturally, and after something
of a struggle they agreed to let `him’ come.
For his particular delectation they fixed up a room
next to Bertram with guns and fishing rods, and
such ladylike specialties; and William went to the
station to meet the boy.”

“With never a suspicion?”

“With never a suspicion.”

“Gorry!”

“Well, `he’ came, and `she’ conquered.  I
guess things were lively for a while, though.  Oh,
there was a kitten, too, I believe, `Spunk,’ who
added to the gayety of nations.”

“But what did the Henshaws do?”

“Well, I wasn’t there, of course; but Bertram
says they spun around like tops gone mad for a
time, but finally quieted down enough to summon
a married sister for immediate propriety, and to
establish Aunt Hannah for permanency the next
day.”

“So that’s how it happened!  Well, by
George!” cried Arkwright.

“Yes,” nodded the other.  “So you see there
are untold possibilities just in a name.  Remember
that.  Just suppose _you_, as Mary Jane, should
beg a home in a feminine household–say in
Miss Billy’s, for instance!”

“I’d like to,” retorted Arkwright, with
sudden warmth.

Calderwell stared a little.

The other laughed shamefacedly.

“Oh, it’s only that I happen to have a
devouring curiosity to meet that special young lady.
I sing her songs (you know she’s written some
dandies!), I’ve heard a lot about her, and I’ve
seen her picture.”  (He did not add that he had
also purloined that same picture from his mother’s
bureau–the picture being a gift from Aunt
Hannah.)  “So you see I would, indeed, like to
occupy a corner in the fair Miss Billy’s household.
I could write to Aunt Hannah and beg a home
with her, you know; eh?”

“Of course!  Why don’t you–`Mary Jane’?”
laughed Calderwell.  “Billy’d take you all right.
She’s had a little Miss Hawthorn, a music teacher,
there for months.  She’s always doing stunts of
that sort.  Belle writes me that she’s had a dozen
forlornites there all this last summer, two or three
at a time-tired widows, lonesome old maids,
and crippled kids–just to give them a royal
good time.  So you see she’d take you, without a
doubt.  Jove! what a pair you’d make:  Miss
Billy and Mr. Mary Jane!  You’d drive the
suffragettes into conniption fits–just by the sound
of you!”

Arkwright laughed quietly; then he frowned.

“But how about it?” he asked.  “I thought
she was keeping house with Aunt Hannah.  Didn’t
she stay at all with the Henshaws?”

“Oh, yes, a few months.  I never knew just
why she did leave, but I fancied, from something
Billy herself said once, that she discovered she
was creating rather too much of an upheaval in
the Strata.  So she took herself off.  She went to
school, and travelled considerably.  She was over
here when I met her first.  After that she was with
us all one summer on the yacht.  A couple of
years ago, or so, she went back to Boston, bought
a house and settled down with Aunt Hannah.”

“And she’s not married–or even engaged?”

“Wasn’t the last I heard.  I haven’t seen her
since December, and I’ve heard from her only
indirectly.  She corresponds with my sister, and
so do I–intermittently.  I heard a month ago
from Belle, and _she_ had a letter from Billy in
August.  But I heard nothing of any engagement.”

“How about the Henshaws?  I should think
there might be a chance there for a romance– a
charming girl, and three unattached men.”

Calderwell gave a slow shake of the head.

“I don’t think so.  William is–let me see–
nearly forty-five, I guess, by this time; and he
isn’t a marrying man.  He buried his heart with
his wife and baby years ago.  Cyril, according to
Bertram, `hates women and all other confusion,’
so that ought to let him out.  As for Bertram
himself–Bertram is `only Bertram.’  He’s always
been that.  Bertram loves girls–to paint; but
I can’t imagine him making serious love to any
one.  It would always be the tilt of a chin or the
turn of a cheek that he was admiring–to paint.

No, there’s no chance for a romance there, I’ll
warrant.”

“But there’s–yourself.”

Calderwell’s eyebrows rose the fraction of an
inch.

“Oh, of course.  I presume January or February
will find me back there,” he admitted with a
sigh and a shrug.  Then, a little bitterly, he added:
“No, Arkwright.  I shall keep away if I can.  I
_know_ there’s no chance for me–now.”

“Then you’ll leave me a clear field?” bantered
the other.

“Of course–`Mary Jane,’ ” retorted Calderwell,
with equal lightness.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you needn’t,” laughed Calderwell.  “My
giving you the right of way doesn’t insure you a
thoroughfare for yourself–there are others, you
know.  Billy Neilson has had sighing swains about I
her, I imagine, since she could walk and talk.  She
is a wonderfully fascinating little bit of femininity,
and she has a heart of pure gold.  All is, I envy
the man who wins it–for the man who wins
that, wins her.”

There was no answer.  Arkwright sat with his
eyes on the moving throng outside the window
near them.  Perhaps he had not heard.  At all
events, when he spoke some time later, it was of a
matter far removed from Miss Billy Neilson, or
the way to her heart.  Nor was the young lady
mentioned between them again that day.

Long hours later, just before parting for the
night, Arkwright said:

“Calderwell, I’m sorry, but I believe, after all,
I can’t take that trip to the lakes with you.  I–
I’m going home next week.”

“Home!  Hang it, Arkwright!  I’d counted on
you.  Isn’t this rather sudden?”

“Yes, and no.  I’ll own I’ve been drifting about
with you contentedly enough for the last six
months to make you think mountain-climbing and
boat-paddling were the end and aim of my existence.
But they aren’t, you know, really.”

“Nonsense!  At heart you’re as much of a
vagabond as I am; and you know it.”

“Perhaps.  But unfortunately I don’t happen
to carry your pocketbook.”

“You may, if you like.  I’ll hand it over any
time,” grinned Calderwell.

“Thanks.  You know well enough what I
mean,” shrugged the other.

There was a moment’s silence; then Calderwell
queried:

“Arkwright, how old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Good!  Then you’re merely travelling to
supplement your education, see?”

“Oh, yes, I see.  But something besides my
education has got to be supplemented now, I reckon.”

“What are you going to do?”

There was an almost imperceptible hesitation;
then, a little shortly, came the answer:

“Hit the trail for Grand Opera, and bring up,
probably–in vaudeville.”

Calderwell smiled appreciatively.

“You _can_ sing like the devil,” he admitted.

“Thanks,” returned his friend, with uplifted
eyebrows.  “Do you mind calling it `an angel’
–just for this occasion?”

“Oh, the matin<e’>e-girls will do that fast enough.
But, I say, Arkwright, what are you going to do
with those initials then?”

“Let ‘em alone.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.  And you won’t be `Mary
Jane,’ either.  Imagine a Mary Jane in Grand
Opera!  I know what you’ll be.  You’ll be `Se<n?>or
Martini Johnini Arkwrightino’!  By the way,
you didn’t say what that `M. J.’ really did stand
for,” hinted Calderwell, shamelessly

“ `Merely Jokes’–in your estimation,
evidently,” shrugged the other.  “But my going
isn’t a joke, Calderwell.  I’m really going.  And
I’m going to work.”

“But–how shall you manage?”

“Time will tell.”

Calderwell frowned and stirred restlessly in his
chair.

“But, honestly, now, to–to follow that trail
of yours will take money.  And–er–” a faint
red stole to his forehead–“don’t they have–
er–patrons for these young and budding geniuses?
Why can’t I have a hand in this trail, too
–or maybe you’d call it a foot, eh?  I’d be no
end glad to, Arkwright.”

“Thanks, old man.”  The red was duplicated
this time above the brown silky beard.  “That
was mighty kind of you, and I appreciate it; but
it won’t be necessary.  A generous, but perhaps
misguided bachelor uncle left me a few thousands
a year or so ago; and I’m going to put them all
down my throat–or rather, _into_ it–before I
give up.”

“Where you going to study?  New York?”

Again there was an almost imperceptible
hesitation before the answer came.

“I’m not quite prepared to say.”

“Why not try it here?”

Arkwright shook his head.

“I did plan to, when I came over but I’ve
changed my mind.  I believe I’d rather work
while longer in America.”

“Hm-m,” murmured Calderwell.

There was a brief silence, followed by other
questions and other answers; after which the
friends said good night.

In his own room, as he was dropping off to
sleep, Calderwell muttered drowsily:

“By George!  I haven’t found out yet what
that blamed `M. J.’ stands for!”