“All right, but I am afraid it is getting late and Nance will worry about me.” The study was cosy indeed with its rows and rows of books, its comfortable chairs and the cheerful open grate. This was his one extravagance in a land of furnace heat and drum stoves, so Edwin Green declared. “But somehow the glow of the fire makes me think better,” he said in self-defence. Molly read any poetry well, her voice with its musical quality being peculiarly adapted to it. This was her poem: “My thoughts like gentle steeds to-day Rest quiet in the paddock fold, Munching their food contentedly. Was it last night? When up—away! Through spaces limitless, untold, Like storm clouds lashed before the wind, Nor strength, nor will could check nor hold, Manes flying—through the night they dashed ‘Til the first glimmering sun’s ray flashed Its blessed light; ‘til the first sigh Of dawn’s awak’ning stirred the leaves. Then back to quiet fold—the night was done— Bend patient necks—the yoke—and day’s begun.” “Let me see it. Your voice would make ‘Eany, meany, miney, mo’ sound like music. I should have read it first to myself to be able to pass on it without prejudice.” He took the poem and read it very carefully. “Miss Molly, you are aware of the fact that you may become a real writer? How old are you?” “Almost twenty.” “Well, I consider that a pretty good poem for almost twenty. I bet I know what that saphead of an editor had to say without reading his letter. Didn’t he say something about your having only thirteen lines?” “Oh, is that what he meant? I have puzzled my brains out over his note. I didn’t even know I had only thirteen lines. Of course I knew it wasn’t exactly sonnet form, but somehow I started out to make fourteen lines and thought I had done it. Here is his cryptic note.” “Dear M. B.: We are sorry to say we are too superstitious to print your poem. Are the poor horses too tired to go a few more feet? If you can urge them on, even if you should lame them a bit, we might reconsider and accept your verses. “The Editor of ——” “Fools, fools, all of them are fools! Don’t you change it for the whole of the silly magazine. It is a good poem, and its having thirteen lines is none of his business. Haven’t you as much right to create a form of verse as Villon or Alfred Tennyson? That editor would have rejected ‘Tears, idle tears,’ because it hasn’t a rhyme in it and looks as though it might have.” The professor was so excited that Molly had to laugh. “You are certainly kind to me and my efforts. I must go now. Please give my love to Mrs. Brady and thank her for her tea. You never did tell me when you expect your sister.” “Bless my soul,” said Edwin Green, looking at his watch, “she will be here in a few minutes now!” “Don’t forget to let me see your sonnet, and please put all the lines in. I am so glad your sister is to be with you, and hope to see her often.”