"Then," whispered Mr. Perkins, "I am living in that hope. My dear Uncle Ebeneezer, though now departed, was a distinguished patron of the arts. Many a time have I read him my work, assured of his deep, though unexpressed sympathy, and, lulled by the rhythm of our spoken speech, he has passed without a jar from my dreamland to his own. I know he would never speak of it to any one--dear Uncle Ebeneezer was too finely grained for that--but still I feel assured that somewhere within the walls of that sorely afflicted house, a sum of--of money--has been placed, in the hope that I might find it and carry out this beautiful work." "Have you hunted?" demanded Elaine, her eyes wide with wonder. "No--not hunted. I beg you, do not use so coarse a word. It jars upon my poet's soul with almost physical pain." "I beg your pardon," returned Elaine, "but----" "Sometimes," interrupted the poet, in a low tone, "when I have felt especially near to Uncle Ebeneezer's spirit, I have barely glanced in secret places where I have felt he might expect me to look for it, but, so far, I have been wholly unsuccessful, though I know that I plainly read his thought." "Some word--some clue--did he give you none?" "None whatever, except that once or twice he said that he would see that I was suitably provided for. He intimated that he intended me to have a sum apportioned to my deserts." "Which would be a generous one; but now--Oh, Mr. Perkins, how can I help you?" "You have never suspected, have you," asked Mr. Perkins, colouring to his temples, "that the room you now occupy might once have been my own? Have no poet's dreams, lingering in the untenanted spaces, claimed your beauteous spirit in sleep?" "Oh, Mr. Perkins, have I your room? I will so gladly give it up--I----" The poet raised his hand. "No. The place where you have walked is holy ground. Not for the world would I dispossess you, but----" A meaning look did the rest. "I see," said Elaine, quickly guessing his thought, "you want to hunt in my room. Oh, Mr. Perkins, I have thoughtlessly pained you again. Can you ever forgive me?" "My thoughts," breathed Mr. Perkins, "are perhaps too finely phrased for modern speech. I would not trespass upon the place you have made your own, but----" There was a brief silence, then Elaine understood. "I see," she said, submissively, "I will hunt myself. I mean, I will glance about in the hope that the spirit of Uncle Ebeneezer may make plain to me what you seek. And----" "And," interjected the poet, quite practical for the moment, "whatever you find is mine, for it was once my room. It is only on account of Uncle Ebeneezer's fine nature and his constant devotion to the Ideal that he did not give it to me direct. He knew it would pain me if he did so. You will remember?" "I will remember. You need not fear to trust me."