Verbal Expression

by Emily Dickinson

A precious, mouldering pleasure ‘t is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind,
The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty.
And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true;
He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize, just so.

by Emily Dickinson

Read, sweet, how others strove,
Till we are stouter;
What they renounced,
Till we are less afraid;
How many times they bore
The faithful witness,
Till we are helped,
As if a kingdom cared!

Read then of faith
That shone above the fagot;
Clear strains of hymn
The river could not drown;
Brave names of men
And celestial women,
Passed out of record
Into renown!

by Edgar Allan Poe
I.       Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
             Whose shadows fall before
             Thy lowly cottage door–
         Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves–
         Within thy snowy clasped hand
             The purple flowers it bore.
         Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
         Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land–
         Enchantress of the flowery wand,
             Most beauteous Isadore!
II.      And when I bade the dream
             Upon thy spirit flee,
             Thy violet eyes to me
         Upturned, did overflowing seem
         With the deep, untold delight
             Of Love’s serenity;
         Thy classic brow, like lilies white
         And pale as the Imperial Night
         Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
             Enthralled my soul to thee!
III.     Ah! ever I behold
             Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
             Blue as the languid skies
         Hung with the sunset’s fringe of gold;
         Now strangely clear thine image grows,
             And olden memories
         Are startled from their long repose
         Like shadows on the silent snows
         When suddenly the night-wind blows
             Where quiet moonlight lies.
IV.      Like music heard in dreams,
             Like strains of harps unknown,
             Of birds for ever flown,–
         Audible as the voice of streams
         That murmur in some leafy dell,
             I hear thy gentlest tone,
         And Silence cometh with her spell
         Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
         When tremulous in dreams I tell
             My love to thee alone!

V.       In every valley heard,
             Floating from tree to tree,
             Less beautiful to me,
         The music of the radiant bird,
         Than artless accents such as thine
             Whose echoes never flee!
         Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:–
         For uttered in thy tones benign
         (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine
             Doth seem a melody!

by Henry Newbolt

Effingham, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake,
Here’s to the bold and free!
Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake,
Hail to the Kings of the Sea!
Admirals all, for England’s sake,
Honour be yours and fame!
And honour, as long as waves shall break,
To Nelson’s peerless name!

Admirals all, for England’s sake,
Honour be yours and fame!
And honour, as long as waves shall break,
To Nelson’s peerless name!

Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay
With the galleons fair in sight;
Howard at last must give him his way,
And the word was passed to fight.
Never was schoolboy gayer than he,
Since holidays first began:
He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea,
And under the guns he ran.

Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared,
Their cities he put to the sack;
He singed his Catholic Majesty’s beard,
And harried his ships to wrack.
He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls
When the great Armada came;
But he said, “They must wait their turn, good souls,”
And he stooped and finished the game.

Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold,
Duncan he had but two;
But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled,
And his colours aloft he flew.
“I’ve taken the depth to a fathom,” he cried,
“And I’ll sink with a right good will:
For I know when we’re all of us under the tide
My flag will be fluttering still.”

Splinters were flying above, below,
When Nelson sailed the Sound:
“Mark you, I wouldn’t be elsewhere now,”
Said he, “for a thousand pound!”
The Admiral’s signal bade him fly
But he wickedly wagged his head:
He clapped the glass to his sightless eye,
And “I’m damned if I see it!” he said.

Admirals all, they said their say
(The echoes are ringing still).
Admirals all, they went their way
To the haven under the hill.
But they left us a kingdom none can take,
The realm of the circling sea,
To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake,
And the Rodneys yet to be.

Admirals all, for England’s sake,
Honour be yours and fame!
And honour, as long as waves shall break,
To Nelson’s peerless name!

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

In the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,
I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,
Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill,
Of which the sole burden is still, “Whip-poor-Will.”

And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,
Has he been playing truant this long summer day?
I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, “Whip-poor-Will.”

But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;
I’ll whip him, don’t fear, if you’ll tell me what for.
I paused for an answer; o’er valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, “Whip-poor-Will.”

Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day,
And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away?
I paused for an answer; o’er valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, “Whip-poor-Will.”

Well, well, I can hear you, don’t have any fears,
I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
Still made but one answer, and that, “Whip-poor-Will.”

But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;
I’m out of all patience, don’t mock me again.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
Still made the same answer, and that, “Whip-poor-Will.”

Well, have your own way, then; but if you won’t tell,
I’ll shut down the window, and bid you farewell;
But of one thing be sure, I won’t whip him until
You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.

I listened a moment, as if for reply,
But nothing was heard but the bird’s mocking cry.
I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;   
It breathed the same burden, that strange “Whip-poor-Will.”

by Emily Dickinson

I know some lonely houses off the road
A robber ‘d like the look of, –
Wooden barred,
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to
A portico,
Where two could creep:
One hand the tools,
The other peep
To make sure all’s asleep.
Old-fashioned eyes,
Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen ‘d look by night,
With just a clock, –
But they could gag the tick,
And mice won’t bark;
And so the walls don’t tell,
None will.

A pair of spectacles ajar just stir –
An almanac’s aware.
Was it the mat winked,
Or a nervous star?
The moon slides down the stair
To see who’s there.

There’s plunder, — where?
Tankard, or spoon,
Earring, or stone,
A watch, some ancient brooch
To match the grandmamma,
Staid sleeping there.

Day rattles, too,
Stealth’s slow;
The sun has got as far
As the third sycamore.
Screams chanticleer,
“Who’s there?”
And echoes, trains away,
Sneer — “Where?”
While the old couple, just astir,
Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

by Edgar Allan Poe
    Gaily bedight,
    A gallant knight,
  In sunshine and in shadow,
    Had journeyed long,
    Singing a song,
  In search of Eldorado.
    But he grew old–
    This knight so bold–
  And o’er his heart a shadow
    Fell as he found
    No spot of ground
  That looked like Eldorado.

  And, as his strength
    Failed him at length,
  He met a pilgrim shadow–
    “Shadow,” said he,
    “Where can it be–
  This land of Eldorado?”

    “Over the Mountains
    Of the Moon,
  Down the Valley of the Shadow,
    Ride, boldly ride,”
    The shade replied,
  “If you seek for Eldorado!”

by John Keats

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still.
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.
There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posey
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
That with a score of light green brethen shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
By infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds!
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fulgent catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:
They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.
How silent comes the water round that bend;
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies ‘gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
So keeping up an interchange of favours,
Like good men in the truth of their behaviours
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown
Fanning away the dandelion’s down;
Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
Playing in all her innocence of thought.
O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her breathing list;
And as she leaves me may she often turn
Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
What next? A tuft of evening primroses,
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
So that we feel uplifted from the world,
Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.
So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
First touch’d; what amorous, and fondling nips
They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,
And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:
The silver lamp,–the ravishment,–the wonder–
The darkness,–loneliness,–the fearful thunder;
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.
So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades
Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph,–poor Pan,–how he did weep to find,
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation–balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble, he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
Full in the speculation of the stars.
Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
Into some wond’rous region he had gone,
To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,
Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,
And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
And crept through half closed lattices to cure
The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d
To see the brightness in each others’ eyes;
And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:
Was there a Poet born?–but now no more,
My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.–

by Eleanor H. Porter

M. J. OPENS THE GAME
On the morning after Cyril’s first concert of
the season, Billy sat sewing with Aunt Hannah
in the little sitting-room at the end of the hall
upstairs.  Aunt Hannah wore only one shawl this
morning,–which meant that she was feeling
unusually well.

“Marie ought to be here to mend these stockings,”
remarked Billy, as she critically examined
a tiny break in the black silk mesh stretched across
the darning-egg in her hand; “only she’d want
a bigger hole.  She does so love to make a beautiful
black latticework bridge across a yawning white
china sea–and you’d think the safety of an
army depended on the way each plank was laid,
too,” she concluded.

Aunt Hannah smiled tranquilly, but she did
not speak.

“I suppose you don’t happen to know if Cyril
does wear big holes in his socks,” resumed Billy,
after a moment’s silence.  “If you’ll believe it,
that thought popped into my head last night when
Cyril was playing that concerto so superbly.  It
did, actually–right in the middle of the adagio
movement, too.  And in spite of my joy and pride
in the music I had all I could do to keep from
nudging Marie right there and then and asking
her whether or not the dear man was hard on
his hose.”

“Billy!” gasped the shocked Aunt Hannah;
but the gasp broke at once into what–in Aunt
Hannah–passed for a chuckle.  “If I remember
rightly, when I was there at the house with you
at first, my dear, William told me that Cyril
wouldn’t wear any sock after it came to mending.”

“Horrors!” Billy waved her stocking in
mock despair.  “That will never do in the world.
It would break Marie’s heart.  You know how she
dotes on darning.”

“Yes, I know,” smiled Aunt Hannah.  “By
the way, where is she this morning?”

Billy raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“Gone to look at an apartment in Cambridge, I
believe.  Really, Aunt Hannah, between her home-
hunting in the morning, and her furniture-and-
rug hunting in the afternoon, and her poring over
house-plans in the evening, I can’t get her to
attend to her clothes at all.  Never did I see a
bride so utterly indifferent to her trousseau as
Marie Hawthorn–and her wedding less than
a month away!”

“But she’s been shopping with you once or
twice, since she came back, hasn’t she?  And she
said it was for her trousseau.”

Billy laughed.

“Her trousseau!  Oh, yes, it was.  I’ll tell you
what she got for her trousseau that first day.
We started out to buy two hats, some lace for
her wedding gown, some cr<e^>pe de Chine and net
for a little dinner frock, and some silk for a couple
of waists to go with her tailored suit; and what did
we get?  We purchased a new-style egg-beater and
a set of cake tins.  Marie got into the kitchen
department and I simply couldn’t get her out of it.
But the next day I was not to be inveigled below
stairs by any plaintive prayer for a nutmeg-
grater or a soda spoon.  She _shopped_ that day, and
to some purpose.  We accomplished lots.”

Aunt Hannah looked a little concerned.

“But she must have _some_ things started!”

“Oh, she has–’most everything now.  _I’ve_
seen to that.  Of course her outfit is very simple,
anyway.  Marie hasn’t much money, you know,
and she simply won’t let me do half what I want
to.  Still, she had saved up some money, and I’ve
finally convinced her that a trousseau doesn’t
consist of egg-beaters and cake tins, and that
Cyril would want her to look pretty.  That name
will fetch her every time, and I’ve learned to
use it beautifully.  I think if I told her Cyril
approved of short hair and near-sightedness she’d
I cut off her golden locks and don spectacles on the
spot.”

Aunt Hannah laughed softly.

“What a child you are, Billy!  Besides, just
as if Marie were the only one in the house who is
ruled by a magic name!”

The color deepened in Billy’s cheeks.

“Well, of course, any girl–cares something–
for the man she loves.  Just as if I wouldn’t do
anything in the world I could for Bertram!”

“Oh, that makes me think; who was that young
woman Bertram was talking with last evening–
just after he left us, I mean?”

“Miss Winthrop–Miss Marguerite Winthrop.
Bertram is–is painting her portrait, you know.”

“Oh, is that the one?” murmured Aunt
Hannah.  “Hm-m; well, she has a beautiful face.”

“Yes, she has.”  Billy spoke very cheerfully.
She even hummed a little tune as she carefully
selected a needle from the cushion in her basket.

“There’s a peculiar something in her face,”
mused Aunt Hannah, aloud.

The little tune stopped abruptly, ending in a
nervous laugh.

“Dear me!  I wonder how it feels to have a
peculiar something in your face.  Bertram, too,
says she has it.  He’s trying to `catch it,’ he says.
I wonder now–if he does catch it, does she lose
it?”  Flippant as were the words, the voice that
uttered them shook a little.

Aunt Hannah smiled indulgently–Aunt Hannah
had heard only the flippancy, not the shake.

“I don’t know, my dear.  You might ask him
this afternoon.”

Billy made a sudden movement.  The china
egg in her lap rolled to the floor.

“Oh, but I don’t see him this afternoon,” she
said lightly, as she stooped to pick up the egg.

“Why, I’m sure he told me–”  Aunt Hannah’s
sentence ended in a questioning pause.

“Yes, I know,” nodded Billy, brightly; “but
he’s told me something since.  He isn’t going.
He telephoned me this morning.  Miss Winthrop
wanted the sitting changed from to-morrow to
this afternoon.  He said he knew I’d understand.”

“Why, yes; but–”  Aunt Hannah did not
finish her sentence.  The whir of an electric bell
had sounded through the house.  A few moments
later Rosa appeared in the open doorway.

“It,’s Mr. Arkwright, Miss.  He said as how
he had brought the music,” she announced.

“Tell him I’ll be down at once,” directed the
mistress of Hillside.

As the maid disappeared, Billy put aside her
work and sprang lightly to her feet.

“Now wasn’t that nice of him?  We were
talking last night about some duets he had, and he
said he’d bring them over.  I didn’t know he’d
come so soon, though.”

Billy had almost reached the bottom of the
stairway, when a low, familiar strain of music drifted
out from the living-room.  Billy caught her breath,
and held her foot suspended.  The next moment
the familiar strain of music had become a lullaby
–one of Billy’s own–and sung now by a melting
tenor voice that lingered caressingly and
understandingly on every tender cadence.

Motionless and almost breathless, Billy waited
until the last low “lul-la-by” vibrated into
silence; then with shining eyes and outstretched
hands she entered the living-room.

“Oh, that was–beautiful,” she breathed.

Arkwright was on his feet instantly.  His eyes,
too, were alight.

“I could not resist singing it just once–
here,” he said a little unsteadily, as their hands
met.

“But to hear my little song sung like that!
I couldn’t believe it was mine,” choked Billy,
still plainly very much moved.  “You sang it as
I’ve never heard it sung before.”

Arkwright shook his head slowly.

“The inspiration of the room–that is all,”,
he said.  “It is a beautiful song.  All of your songs
are beautiful.”

Billy blushed rosily.

“Thank you.  You know–more of them,
then?”

“I think I know them all–unless you have
some new ones out.  Have you some new ones,
lately?”

Billy shook her head.

“No; I haven’t written anything since last
spring.”

“But you’re going to?”

She drew a long sigh.

“Yes, oh, yes.  I know that _now_–”  With a
swift biting of her lower lip Billy caught herself
up in time.  As if she could tell this man, this
stranger, what she had told Bertram that night
by the fire–that she knew that now, _now_ she
would write beautiful songs, with his love, and
his pride in her, as incentives.  “Oh, yes, I think
I shall write more one of these days,” she finished
lightly.  “But come, this isn’t singing duets!  I
want to see the music you brought.”

They sang then, one after another of the duets.
To Billy, the music was new and interesting.
To Billy, too, it was new (and interesting) to hear
her own voice blending with another’s so perfectly
–to feel herself a part of such exquisite harmony.

“Oh, oh!” she breathed ecstatically, after the
last note of a particularly beautiful phrase.  “I
never knew before how lovely it was to sing
duets.”

“Nor I,” replied Arkwright in a voice that was
not quite steady.

Arkwright’s eyes were on the enraptured face
of the girl so near him.  It was well, perhaps,
that Billy did not happen to turn and catch their
expression.  Still, it might have been better if
she had turned, after all.  But Billy’s eyes were
on the music before her.  Her fingers were busy
with the fluttering pages, searching for another
duet.

“Didn’t you?” she murmured abstractedly.
“I supposed _you’d_ sung them before; but you
see I never did–until the other night.  There,
let’s try this one!”

“This one” was followed by another and
another.  Then Billy drew a long breath.

“There! that must positively be the last,”
she declared reluctantly.  “I’m so hoarse now
I can scarcely croak.  You see, I don’t pretend
to sing, really.”

“Don’t you?  You sing far better than some
who do, anyhow,”retorted the man, warmly.

“Thank you,” smiled Billy; “that was nice
of you to say so–for my sake–and the others
aren’t here to care.  But tell me of yourself.  I
haven’t had a chance to ask you yet; and–I
think you said Mary Jane was going to study for
Grand Opera.”

Arkwright laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“She is; but, as I told Calderwell, she’s quite
likely to bring up in vaudeville.”

“Calderwell!  Do you mean–Hugh Calderwell?”
Billy’s cheeks showed a deeper color.

The man gave an embarrassed little laugh.  He
had not meant to let that name slip out just yet.

“Yes.”  He hesitated, then plunged on
recklessly.  “We tramped half over Europe together
last summer.”

“Did you?”  Billy left her seat at the piano
for one nearer the fire.  “But this isn’t telling
me about your own plans,” she hurried on a little
precipitately.  “You’ve studied before, of course.
Your voice shows that.”

“Oh, yes; I’ve studied singing several years,
and I’ve had a year or two of church work,
besides a little concert practice of a mild sort.”

“Have you begun here, yet?”

“Y-yes, I’ve had my voice tried.”

Billy sat erect with eager interest.

“They liked it, of course?”

Arkwright laughed.

“I’m not saying that.”

“No, but I am,” declared Billy, with conviction.
“They couldn’t help liking it.”

Arkwright laughed again.  Just how well they
had “liked it” he did not intend to say.  Their
remarks had been quite too flattering to repeat
even to this very plainly interested young woman
–delightful and heart-warming as was this same
show of interest, to himself.

“Thank you,” was all he said.

Billy gave an excited little bounce in her
chair.

“And you’ll begin to learn r<o^>les right away?”

“I already have, some–after a fashion–before
I came here.”

“Really?  How splendid!  Why, then you’ll
be acting them next right on the Boston Opera
House stage, and we’ll all go to hear you.  How
perfectly lovely!  I can hardly wait.”

Arkwright laughed–but his eyes glowed with
pleasure.

“Aren’t you hurrying things a little?” he
ventured.

“But they do let the students appear,”
argued Billy.  “I knew a girl last year who went on

in `Aida,’ and she was a pupil at the School.
She sang first in a Sunday concert, then they put
her in the bill for a Saturday night.  She did
splendidly–so well that they gave her a chance
later at a subscription performance.  Oh, you’ll
be there–and soon, too!”

“Thank you!  I only wish the powers that
could put me there had your flattering enthusiasm
on the matter,” he smiled.

“I don’t worry any,” nodded Billy, “only
please don’t `arrive’ too soon–not before the
wedding, you know,” she added jokingly.  “We
shall be too busy to give you proper attention
until after that.”

A peculiar look crossed Arkwright’s face.

“The–_wedding?_” he asked, a little faintly.

“Yes.  Didn’t you know?  My friend, Miss
Hawthorn, is to marry Mr. Cyril Henshaw next
month.”

The man opposite relaxed visibly.

“Oh, _Miss Hawthorn!_  No, I didn’t know,”
he murmured; then, with sudden astonishment
he added:  “And to Mr. Cyril, the musician,
did you say?”

“Yes.  You seem surprised.”

“I am.”  Arkwright paused, then went on
almost defiantly.  “You see, Calderwell was
telling me only last September how very
unmarriageable all the Henshaw brothers were.  So
I am surprised–naturally,” finished Arkwright,
as he rose to take his leave.

A swift crimson stained Billy’s face.

“But surely you must know that–that–”

“That he has a right to change his mind, of
course,” supplemented Arkwright smilingly,
coming to her rescue in the evident confusion that
would not let her finish her sentence.  “But
Calderwell made it so emphatic, you see, about
all the brothers.  He said that William had lost
his heart long ago; that Cyril hadn’t any to lose;
and that Bertram–”

“But, Mr. Arkwright, Bertram is–is–”
Billy had moistened her lips, and plunged hurriedly
in to prevent Arkwright’s next words.  But again
was she unable to finish her sentence, and again
was she forced to listen to a very different
completion from the smiling lips of the man at her
side.

“Is an artist, of course,” said Arkwright.
“That’s what Calderwell declared–that it
would always be the tilt of a chin or the curve
of a cheek that the artist loved–to paint.”

Billy drew back suddenly.  Her face paled.
As if _now_ she could tell this man that Bertram
Henshaw was engaged to her!  He would find it
out soon, of course, for himself; and perhaps he,
like Hugh Calderwell, would think it was the
curve of _her_ cheek, or the tilt of _her_ chin–

Billy lifted her chin very defiantly now as she
held out her hand in good-by.

by Edgar Degas