He smoothed the paper. She pressed against him; thrilled as she regarded the written lines. George begged her read. She would not--well, she would. She paused. Modesty and pride gathered on her cheeks, tuned her voice low. She read: “So you have tried--So you have known The burning effort for success, The quick belief in your own prowess and your skill, The bitterness of failure, and the joy Of sweet success.” “'Burning effort,'” George said. “That's fine!” “I'm glad you like that. And 'quick belief'--you know what I mean?” “Oh, rather.” The poet warmed again over her words. “So you have tried-- So you have known The blind-eyed groping towards the goal That flickers on the far horizon of Attempt, Gleaming to sudden vividness, anon Fading from sight.” “Sort of blank verse, isn't it?” George asked. “Well, sort of,” the poet allowed. “Not exactly, of course.” “Of course not,” George agreed firmly. Margaret breathed the next fine lines. “So you have tried-- So you have known The bitter-sweetness of Attempt, The quick determination and the dread despair That grapple and possess you as you strive For imagery.” George questioned: “Imagery...?” “That verse is more for me than you,” the poet explained. “'For imagery'--to get the right word, you know.” “Rather!” said George. “It does for me too--in exams, when one is floored, you know.” “Yes,” Margaret admitted doubtfully. “Ye-es. Don't interrupt between the verses, dear.” Now emotion swelled her voice. “Success be yours! May you achieve To heights you do not dream you'll ever touch; The power's to your hand, the road before you lies-- Forward! The gods not always frown; anon They'll kindly smile.” “Why, that's splendid!” George cried. He put a cousinly arm about the poet; squeezed her to him. “Fancy you writing that for me! What a sympathetic little soul you are--and how clever!” Breathless she disengaged herself: “I'm so glad you like it. It's a silly little thing--but it's _real_, isn't it? Come, there's father.” She paused against denial of the poem's silliness, affirmation of its truth; but George, moody beneath Mr. Marrapit's eye, glinting behind the window, had moved forward. Margaret thrust the paper in her bosom, tucked in where heart might warm against heart's child. Constantly during breakfast her mind reverted to it, drummed its rare lines. CHAPTER III. Upon Modesty In Art: And Should Be Skipped. Yet Margaret had called her poem silly. Here, then, was mock-modesty by diffidence seeking praise. But this mock-modesty, which horribly abounds to-day, is only natural product of that furious modesty which has come to be expected in all the arts.