The aloofness troubled Margaret. This girl wrapped her sentiment about Mary; delighting in one who, so pretty, so young, so gentle-voiced, must face life in an alien home. The girls came naturally together, and it was not long before Margaret bubbled out her vocation. The talk was upon books. Margaret turned away her head; said in the voice of one hurrying over a commonplace: “I write, you know.” She tingled for the “Do you?” from her companion, but it did not come, and this was very disappointing. She stole a glance at Mary, sitting with a far-away expression in her eyes (the ridiculous girl had heard an engine whistle; knew it to be the train that was taking her George to London). Margaret stole a glance at Mary; repeated louder: “I write, you know.” It fetched the delicious response. Mary started: “Do you?” Margaret said hurriedly: “Oh, nothing worth speaking of.” Mary said: “Oh!”; gave her thoughts again to the train. It was wretched of her. “Poems,” said Margaret, and stressed the word “_Poems_.” Mary came flying back from the train. “Oh, how interesting that is!” At once Margaret drew away. “Oh, it is nothing,” she said, “nothing.” She put her eyes upon the far clouds; breathed “Nothing” in a long sigh. From this it was not a far step to reading, with terrible reluctance, her poems to Mary; nor from this again was it other than an obvious step to telling of Bill. Her pretty verses were so clearly written at some heart which throbbed responsive, that Mary must needs put the question. It came after a full hour's reading--the poet sitting upon her bed in a litter of manuscripts, Mary in a low chair before her. In a tremulous voice the poet concluded the refrain of an exquisite verse: “Beat for beat, your heart, my darling, Beats with mine. Skylarks carol, quick responsive, Love divine.” The poet gave a little gulp; laid down her paper. Mary also gulped. From both their pretty persons emotion welled in a great flood that filled the room. “I'm sure that is written _to_ somebody,” Mary breathed. Margaret nodded. This girl was too ravished with the grip of the thing to be capable of words. Mary implored: “Oh, do tell me!” Then Margaret told the story of Bill--with intimate details and in the beautiful phrases of the poet mind she told it, and the flooding emotion piled upwards to the very roof. Love has rightly been pictured as a naked babe. Men together will examine a baby--if they must--with a bashful diffidence that pulls down the clothes each time the infant kicks; women dote upon each inch of its chubby person. And so with love. Men will discuss their love--if they must--with the most prudish decorum; women undress it. It becomes essential, therefore, that what Margaret said to Mary must not be discovered. When she had ceased she put out a hand for the price of her confidence: “And have you--are you--I know practically nothing about you, Mary, dear. _Do_ tell me, are _you_ in love?”