"Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart! Some Padre, wayworn, stooping towards his grave, Whom God by devious ways had sent so far, So far from Spain--still pressing on to save The souls He loved, now, raising up his eyes And seeing on thy breast the bleeding heart Of Jesus, cast his robes aside and spake Thy name--and set that place apart." As she followed the lines Hardy watched her face with eyes that grew strangely soft and gentle. It was Lucy Ware of all the world who understood him. Others laughed, or pitied, or overdid it, or remained unmoved, but Lucy with her trusting blue eyes and broad poet's brow--a brow which always made him think of Mrs. Browning who was a poet indeed, she always read his heart, in her he could safely trust. And now, when those dear eyes filled up with tears he could have taken her hand, yes, he could have kissed her--if he had not been afraid. "Rufus," she said at last, "you are a poet." And then she dried her eyes and smiled. "Let me read some more," she pleaded; but Hardy held the bundle resolutely away. "No," he said gently, "it is enough to have pleased you once. You know poetry is like music; it is an expression of thoughts which are more than thoughts. They come up out of the great sea of our inner soul like the breath of flowers from a hidden garden, like the sound of breakers from the ocean cliffs; but not every one can scent their fragrance, and some ears are too dull to hear music in the rush of waters. And when one has caught the music of another's song then it is best to stop before--before some discord comes. Lucy," he began, as his soul within him rose up and clamored for it knew not what, "Lucy--" He paused, and the woman hung upon his lips to catch the words. "Yes?" she said, but the thought had suddenly left him. It was a great longing--that he knew--a great desire, unsensed because unknown--but deep, deep. "Yes--Rufus?" she breathed, leaning over; but the light had gone out of his eyes and he gazed at her strangely. "It is nothing," he murmured, "nothing. I--I have forgotten what I was going to say." He sighed, and looked moodily at his feet. "The thoughts of a would-be poet," he mused, cynically. "How valuable they are--how the world must long for them--when he even forgets them himself! I guess I'd better keep still and let you talk a while," he ended, absently. But Lucy Ware sat gazing before her in silence. "Isn't it time we returned?" she asked, after a while. "You know I have a great deal to do." "Oh, that's all right," said Hardy, easily, "I'll help you. What do you want to do--clean house?"