“Mine?” “Yes.” “Who told you I wrote verses? That silly boy?” “No—I saw your verses before I saw you. You remember?” “It was very dishonourable in you to read them.” “I only saw they were verses. I did not read a word.” “I forgive you, then. You must show me yours first, till I see whether I could venture to let you see mine. If yours were very bad indeed, then I might risk showing mine.” And much more of this sort, with which I will not weary my readers. It ended in Hugh’s taking from the old escritoire a bundle of papers, and handing them to Euphra. But the reader need not fear that I am going to print any of these verses. I have more respect for my honest prose page than to break it up so. Indeed, the whole of this interview might have been omitted, but for two circumstances. One of them was, that in getting these papers, Hugh had to open a concealed portion of the escritoire, which his mathematical knowledge had enabled him to discover. It had evidently not been opened for many years before he found it. He had made use of it to hold the only treasures he had—poor enough treasures, certainly! Not a loving note, not a lock of hair even had he—nothing but the few cobwebs spun from his own brain. It is true, we are rich or poor according to what we are, not what we have. But what a man has produced, is not what he is. He may even impoverish his true self by production. When Euphra saw him open this place, she uttered a suppressed cry of astonishment. “Ah!” said Hugh, “you did not know of this hidie-hole, did you?” “Indeed, I did not. I had used the desk myself, for this was a favourite room of mine before you came, but I never found that. Dear me! Let me look.” She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned over him, as he pointed out the way of opening it. “Did you find nothing in it?” she said, with a slight tremour in her voice. “Nothing whatever.” “There may be more places.” “No. I have accounted for the whole bulk, I believe.” “How strange!” “But now you must give me my guerdon,” said Hugh timidly. The fact was, the poor youth had bargained, in a playful manner, and yet with an earnest, covetous heart, for one, the first kiss, in return for the poems she begged to see. She turned her face towards him.