And what he told her was just such a story as almost all mothers and fathers tell--of the precocious and wonderful intellect of their children and the great hopes they have of them. But with this man it was different in some way. He was so deeply in earnest and so hopeful and so tender that Miss Arnold could scarcely bear it. “Ellen” was to be a poet. Had she not written verses when she was still a girl, and had not the “college chap” and her teachers declared she had great talents? Wait--he would let Miss Arnold judge for herself. Only lately he had written to Ellen, asking her if she still remembered their lonely mountain-home, and she had sent him this. They had strolled down the corridor to one of the winding stairways at the end. He drew from his large leather purse a folded paper. The girl watched him open it with an inexpressible fear in her eyes, and when she saw what it was she started forward with a sort of gasp, and then turned away and steadied herself against the balustrade. He spread out the paper with exaggerated care, and read, with the monotonously painful intonations of the unpractised reader: “Ye storm-winds of Autumn! Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-lighted lake; Who cross to the hill-side Thin sprinkled with farms, Where the high woods strip sadly Their yellow arms-- Ye are bound for the mountains! Oh! with you let me go Where your cold, distant barrier, The vast range of snow, Through the loose clouds lifts dimly Its white peaks in air-- How deep is their stillness! Ah! would I were there!” As he read, Miss Arnold turned her eyes, burning with an unutterable indignation and scorn, upon the girl, but the mute misery and awful supplication in her face checked the words upon her lips. When he had finished reading, Miss Arnold murmured something, she hardly knew what, but he would not let her off so easily. What did she think of it?--did she not think he ought to be proud of Ellen? and was the “gleam-lighted lake” the lake they could see from the piazza? He ran on, taking it for granted that Miss Arnold was interested in his hopes and dreams, and almost without waiting for or expecting replies. And at last he told her the great secret. Ellen was writing a book. He spoke of it almost with awe--in a suppressed sort of fashion. She had not told him yet much about it, but he seemed wholly confident in its future success. He wondered which of the big publishing houses would want it most.