But Mr. Skidd had discovered real merit in all Margaret did; there was the impress of truth, and no fictitious feeling. The cry was the cry of a starved, human soul pining for sympathy and an outlet, under a life of great misery and repression, haunted by a never-ending fear. He was so amazed when Margaret stood before him--at her youth and the graceful way she expressed her thanks, that he was dumb before her. Next a vivid colour blushed over his bald head, for he remembered that he stood in his shirt-sleeves. He was too honest a man to accept her thanks for more than he had done, and he puzzled her considerably by his allusion to the great appreciation of a gentleman from London. "But you published my little poem," she asked, not a little perplexed by his statements. "Certainly, madam! In the first instance I did, but this gentleman, a literary gentleman, happened to call the very day I was reading your first poem, and he liked it, and he brought it out afterwards and took charge of the trifle I sent you for it; I hope that was all right and that you received it. I hold his receipt, and I imagined he was authorised by you." "Oh, thank you! Yes. I got the money all right," said Margaret, much bewildered, and wondering who this could have been. She found also that Mr. Skidd could not promise anything about her poem in an enlarged form till he had seen it, and had time to consult this mysterious friend, who by his account appreciated her short poems so much. It was delightful to think she might have a larger audience and command a public who might be equally appreciative. Mr. Skidd began to discuss her poetry with her, and he gave her many useful hints. "The fault of your poetry, madam, is that it wants variety. People get tired of perpetual sorrow and all that sort of thing. You write very prettily. Give us something cheerful, make the birds twitter and the sun shine, cultivate brightness, people do not like always being in mourning." "But if I am not happy I cannot write what I do not feel," objected Margaret. "Oh, yes you can; you get the trick of the thing and you will easily do it." Margaret knew this to be impossible, but before she had time to repeat her negative a well-remembered face came before her, and Sir Albert Gerald, filled with happiness at meeting her so unexpectedly, came up with an outstretched hand. Mr. Skidd was immensely annoyed. "And you make believe not to know who buys your poem," he exclaimed; "I call that humbug--and you," he said sharply, turning to Sir Albert, "why could you not be open about it?" "But did _you_ buy my poems? Are you the literary man from whose appreciation I have received so much encouragement?" and Margaret, mortified and disappointed, turned to go away. At any rate _she_ knew nothing, and Mr. Skidd was ashamed of the momentary suspicion that had filled him. "No, this lady was acting on the square; as for the man...."