The vineyards, purple with their bloom, Elaine, hast thou forgotten? The maidens in thy lonely room, Thy tapestry on silent loom-- But hush! Where is Elaine? Elaine, hast thou forgotten? Thy castle in the valley lies, Elaine, hast thou forgotten? Where swift the homing swallow flies And in the sunset daylight dies-- But hush! Where is Elaine? Elaine, hast thou forgotten? Night comes at last on dreamy wings, Elaine, hast thou forgotten? 'Mid gleaming clouds the pale moon swings, Thy taper light a faint star brings, But hush! Where is Elaine? Elaine, hast thou forgotten? Harlan had never written any poetry before, but it had always seemed easy. Now, as he read the verses over again, he was tremendously satisfied with his achievement. Unconsciously, he had modelled it upon an exquisite little bit by some one else, which had once been reprinted beneath a "story" of his own when he was on the paper. He read it aloud, to see how it sounded, and was more pleased than ever with the swing of the verse and the music of the words. "It's pretty close to art," he said to himself, "if it isn't the real thing." Just then the luncheon bell rang, and he went out to the midday "gab-fest," as he inwardly characterised it. The meal proceeded to dessert without any unusual disturbance, then the diminutive Ebeneezer threw the remnants of his cup of milk into his mother's face, and was carried off, howling, to be spanked. Like many other mothers, Mrs. Holmes resented her children's conduct when it incommoded her, but not otherwise, and though milk baths are said to be fine for the complexion, she was not altogether pleased with the manner of application. Amid the vocal pyrotechnics from the Holmes apartments, Harlan escaped into the library, but his poem was gone. He searched for it vainly, then sat down to write it over before he should forget it. This done, he went on with Elaine and her adventures, and presently forgot all about the lost page. "Don't that do your heart good?" inquired Mrs. Dodd, of Dorothy, inclining her head toward Mrs. Holmes's door. "Be it ever so humble," sang Dick, strolling out of the room, "there's no place like Holmes's." Mrs. Carr admitted that her ears were not yet so calloused but that the sound gave her distinct pleasure. "If that there little limb of Satan had have throwed his milk in anybody else's face," went on Mrs. Dodd, "all she'd have said would have been: 'Ebbie, don't spill your nice milk. That's naughty.'"