"O mither, mither mak my bed O mak it saft and narrow; Since my love died for me to-day, Ise die for him to-morrowe." "It's about a teacher right here in the High School," Rosalie went on to tell. Then it was true. "Which one?" asked Emily. But that Rosalie did not know. It was like poetry. But then life was all turning to poetry now. One climbed the stairs to the mansard now with winged feet, for Rhetoric is concerned with metaphor and simile, and Rhetoric treats of rhyme. There is a sudden meaning in Learning since it leads to a desired end. Poetry is everywhere around. The prose light of common day is breaking into prismatic rays. Into the dusty highway of Ancient History all at once sweeps the pageantry of Mythology. Philemon bends above old Baucis at the High School gate, though hitherto they have been sycamores. Olympus is just beyond the clouds. The Elysian Fields lie only the surrender of the will away, if one but droops, with absent eye, head propped on hand, and dreams---- But Emily, all at once, is conscious that Miss Beaton's eyes are on her, at which she moves suddenly and looks up. But this mild-eyed teacher with the sweet, strong smile is but gazing absently down on her the while she talks. Emily likes Miss Beaton, the teacher of History. Her skirts trail softly and her hair is ruddy where it is not brown; she forgets, and when she rises her handkerchief is always fluttering to the floor. Emily loves to be the one to jump and pick it up. Miss Beaton's handkerchiefs are fine and faintly sweet and softly crumpled, and Emily loves the smile when Miss Beaton's absent gaze comes back and finds her waiting. But to-day, what is this she is saying? Who is the beautiful youth she is telling about? Adonis? Beloved, did she say, and wounded? Wounded unto death, but loved and never forgotten, and from whose blood sprang the windswept petals of anemone---- Miss Beaton's gaze comes back to her school-room and she takes up the book. The story is told. Emily had not known that her eyes had filled--tears come so unlooked-for these days--until the ring on Miss Beaton's hand glistened and the facets of its jewel broke into gleams. She caught her breath, she sat up suddenly, for she knew--all at once she knew--it was Miss Beaton who had been the bride, and the ring was the sign. She loved Miss Beaton with a sudden rapture, and henceforth gazed upon her with secret adoration. She made excuses to consult books in Miss Beaton's room, that she might be near her; she dreamed, and the sweetness and the sadness of it centred about Miss Beaton. She told Rosalie. "Why, of course, I guessed her right at first," said Rosalie; but she said it jealously, for she, too, was secretly adoring Miss Beaton. Emily had been trying to ask Margaret something, but each time the question stuck in her throat. Now she gathered courage.