Patty was very much in earnest. Sam Blaney looked at her, the eager pleading face urged him, the blue eyes dared a refusal, and the hovering smile seemed to doubt his ability to prove his own proposition. "Of course I could!" he replied. "With you for inspiration, I could write a poem that would throb and thrill with the eternal heart of the radiance of the soul's starshine." "Then do it," cried Patty; "I believe you, I thoroughly believe you, but I want to see it. I want the poem for myself. Give it to me." Slowly Blaney took a pencil and notebook from his pocket. He sat gazing at her, and Patty, fairly beaming with eager interest, waited. For some minutes he sat, silent, almost motionless, and she began to grow restless. "I don't want to hurry you," she said, at last, "but I mustn't stay here too long. Please write it now, Mr. Blaney. I'm sure you can do it,--why delay?" "Yes, I can do it," he said, "but I want to get the highest, the divinest inspiration, in order to produce a gem worthy of your acceptance." "Well, don't wait longer for that. Give me your second best, if need be,--only write something. I've always wanted to see a real, true poet write a real true poem. I never had a chance before. Now, don't dare disappoint me!" Patty looked very sweet and coaxing, and her voice was earnestly pleading, not at all implying doubt of his ability or willingness. Still Blaney sat, thoughtfully regarding her. "Come, come," she said, after another wait, "I shall begin to think you can't be inspired by my presence, after all! If you are, genius ought to burn by this time. If not, I suppose we'll have to give it up,--but it will disappoint me horribly." The blue eyes were full of reproach, and Patty began to draw her scarf round her shoulders and seemed about to rise. "No, no," protested Blaney, putting out a hand to detain her, "a moment,--just a moment,--stay, I have it!" He began to scribble rapidly, and, fascinated, Patty watched him. Occasionally he glanced at her, but it was with a faraway look in his eyes, and an exalted expression on his face. He wrote fast, but not steadily, now and then pausing, as if waiting for the right word, and then doing two or three lines without hesitation. Finally, he drew a long sigh, and the poem seemed to be finished. "It is done," he said, "not worthy of your acceptance, but made for you. Shall I read it to you?" "Yes, do," and Patty was thrilled by the fervour in his tones. In the soft, low voice that was one of his greatest charms, Blaney read these lines: