It was spring, and the High School populace turned out at recess to promenade the yard. On the third round about the gravel, in the farthest corner where a lilac bush topping the fence from next door lent a sort of screen and privacy, Emily caught Margaret by the arm and held her back. After that there was no retreat; she had to speak. "How--how do you do it?" she asked. "What?" asked Margaret. "Write?" said Emily, holding to Margaret tight--she had never before thus laid bare the secrets of her soul. "Oh," said Margaret, and her lips parted and her face lighted as she and Emily gazed into each other's eyes, "you just feel it and then you write." There was a time when Emily would have asked, "Feel what?" "It" as used by Margaret was indefinite, but Emily understood. You just feel it and then you write. In her study hour Emily took her pencil and, with Latin Grammar as barrier and blind to an outside world, bent over her paper. She did not speak them, those whispers hunting the rhyme: she only felt them, and they spoke. She did not know, she did not dream that she was finding the use, the purpose for it all, these years of the climb toward knowledge. Some day it would dawn on her that we only garner to give out. _Creare--creatum_, she had repeated in class from her Latin Grammar, but she did not understand the meaning then. In the beginning God made, and Man is in the image of God. She had found the answer to her discontent; for to create, to give out, is the law. She wrote on, head bent, cheek flushed, leaning absorbed above the paper in her book. On the way home she whispered that which had written itself, while her feet kept time to the rhythm. It was Beautiful and Sad, and it was True: "The bride and her maidens sat in her bower----" She nodded to William loitering near the High School gate, and hurried on. She did not want company just now: "And they 'broidered a snow-white veil, And their laughter was sweet as the orange flower That breathed on the soft south gale." But here William caught up with her. She had thought he would take the hint, but he didn't, going with her to her very gate. But once inside, she drew a long breath. The cherry buds were swelling and the sky was blue. She took up her verse where William had interrupted: "The bride and her maidens sit in her bower, And they stitch at a winding-sheet; And they weep as the breath of the orange flower----" Emily is so absorbed at the dinner-table that Aunt Cordelia is moved to argue about it. She sha'n't go to school if she does not eat her dinner when she gets home. "And that beautiful slice of good roast beef untouched," says Aunt Cordelia. Emily frowned, being intent on that last line, which is not written yet. She is hunting the rhyme for winding-sheet. What is this Aunt Cordelia is saying? "Eat--meat----" How _can_ Aunt Cordelia?--it throws one off--it upsets one.