'I really will, child. Don't think I care much about the thing. What does it matter to me whether I am counted a writer of society verses? It pleased me that the world should think me capable of these trifles while I am elaborating a really ambitious poem. One more little volume and I shall have done. Besides, all this time you are improving. When you burst upon the world it will be with wings full-fledged and flight-sustained that you will soar to the stars. Fair poetess, I will make your fame assured. Be comforted.' She looked up, tearful and happy. 'Oh, forgive me!' she said. 'Yes; I will do everything--exactly--as you want!' 'The world wants another poetess. You shall be that sweet singer. Let me be the first to acknowledge the gift divine.' He bowed and raised her hand and kissed the fingers of her shabby glove. 'Now, child,' he said, 'your visit has gained you another three pounds--here they are.' She took the money, blushing again. The glowing prospect warmed her heart. But the three golden sovereigns chilled her again. She had parted with her child--her own. It was gone--and he would call it his and pretend to be the father. And yet he was going to make such splendid amends to her. 'How is your brother?' 'He is always the same. He works all day at his play. In the afternoon he creeps out for a little on his crutches. In the future, Mr. Feilding, we are both going to be happy, he with his dramas and I with my poems.' 'Is his drama nearly ready?' 'Very nearly.' 'Tell him to let me read it. I can, at least, advise him.' 'If you will! Oh! you are so kind! What we should have done without your help and the money you have given me, I do not know.' 'You are welcome, sweet singer and heavenly poet.' The great man took her hand and pressed it. 'Now be thankful that you came here. You have cleared your mind of doubts, and you know what awaits you in the future. Bring your brother's little play. I should like--yes, I should like to see what sort of a play he has written.' She went away, happier for the prophecy. In the dead of night she dreamed that she saw Mr. Alec Feilding carried along in a triumphal car to the Temple of Fame. The goddess herself, flying aloft in a white satin robe, blew the trumpet, and a nymph flying lower down--in white linen--put on the laurel crown and held it steady when the chariot bumped over the ruts. It was her crown--her own--that adorned those brows. Is it right? she asked again. Is it right? Mr. Feilding, when she was gone, proceeded to copy out the poem carefully in his own handwriting, adding a few erasures and corrections so as to give the copy the hall-mark of the poet's study. Then he threw the original upon the fire.