Within twelve months Lucian’s recollections of the perfidious Haidee were nebulous and indistinct. He had taken the muse for mistress and wooed her with such constant persistency that he had no time to think of anything else. He used up much manuscript paper and made large demands upon Sprats and his Aunt Judith, the only persons to whom he condescended to show his productions, and he was alike miserable and happy. Whenever he wrote a new poem he was filled with elation, and for at least twenty-four hours glowed with admiration of his own powers; then set in a period of uncertainty, followed by one of doubt and another of gloom--the lines which had sounded so fine that they almost brought tears to his eyes seemed banal and weak, and were not infrequently cast into the fire, where his once-cherished copies of the Haidee sonnets had long since preceded them. Miss Judith nearly shed tears when these sacrifices were made, and more than once implored him tenderly to spare his offspring, but with no result, for no human monster is so savage as the poet who turns against his own fancies. It was due to her, however, that one of Lucian’s earliest efforts was spared. Knowing his propensity for tearing and rending his children, she surreptitiously obtained his manuscript upon one occasion and made a fair copy of a sentimental story written in imitation of _Lara_, which had greatly moved her, and it was not until many years afterwards that Lucian was confronted and put to shame by the sight of it. At the age of eighteen Lucian celebrated his birthday by burning every manuscript he had, and announcing that he would write no more verses until he was at least twenty-one. But chancing to hear a pathetic story of rural life which appealed powerfully to his imagination, he began to write again; and after a time, during which he was unusually morose and abstracted, he presented himself to Sprats with a bundle of manuscript. He handed it over to her with something of shyness. ‘I want you to read it--carefully,’ he said. ‘Of course,’ she answered. ‘But is it to share the fate of all the rest, Lucian? You made a clean sweep of everything, didn’t you?’ ‘That stuff!’ he said, with fine contempt. ‘I should think so! But this----’ he paused, plunged his hands into his pockets, and strode up and down the room--‘this is--well, it’s different. Sprats!--I believe it’s good.’ ‘I wish you’d let my father read it,’ she said. ‘Do, Lucian.’ ‘Perhaps,’ he answered. ‘But you first--I want to know what you think. I can trust you.’