The commercial man went back to the smoking-room to mention casually that Mrs. March was a poetess. "There's mighty little," John began, but the din of a passing freight train compelled him to repeat much louder--"There's mighty little poetry that can beat Tom Moore's!" Barbara showed herself so mystified and embarrassed that March was sure she had not heard him correctly. He reiterated his words, and she understood and smiled broadly, but merely explained, apologetically, that she had thought he had said there was mighty little pastry could beat his mother's. John laughed so heartily that Mrs. Fair looked back at Barbara with gay approval, and life seemed to him for the moment to have less battle-smoke and more sunshine; but by and by when he thought Barbara's attention was entirely on the landscape, she saw him unconsciously shake his head and heave a sigh. LVI. CONCERNING SECOND LOVE When the train stopped at a station they talked of the book in her hand, and by the time it started on they were reading poems from the volume to each other. The roar of the wheels did not drown her low, searching tones; by bending close John could hear quite comfortably. Between readings they discussed those truths of the heart on which the poems touched. Later, though they still read aloud, they often looked on the page together. In the middle of one poem they turned the book face downward to consider a question. Did Miss Garnet believe--Mr. March offered to admit that among the small elect who are really capable of a divine passion there may be some with whom a second love is a genuine and beautiful possibility--yet it passed his comprehension--he had never seen two dawns in one day--but did Miss Garnet believe such a second love could ever have the depth and fervor of the first? Yes, she replied with slow care, she did--in a man's case at least. To every deep soul she did believe it was appointed to love once--yes--with a greater joy and pain than ever before or after, but she hardly thought this was first love. It was almost sure to be first love in a woman, for a woman, she said, can't afford to let herself love until she knows she is loved, and so her first love--when it really is love, and not a mere consent to be loved---- "Which is frequently all it is," said John. "Yes. But when it is a real love--it's fearfully sure and strong _because_ it has to be slow. I believe when such a love as that leaves a woman's heart, it is likely to leave it hope-less-ly strand-ed." "And you think it's different with a man?" "Why, I hope it's sometimes different with a woman; but I believe, Mr. March, that with a man the chances are better. A man who simply must love, and love with his whole soul----" "Then you believe there are such?" "Yes, there must be, or God wouldn't create some of the women he makes." "True!" said John, very gallantly.