"I loved her.--Why? I never knew.--Perhaps Because her face was fair; perhaps because Her eyes were blue and wore a weary air;-- Perhaps . . . perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide; perhaps because her tresses beat A froth of gold about her throat, and poured In splendour to the feet that ever seemed Afloat. Perhaps because of that wild way Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety; Or--who will say?--perhaps the way she wept." The lovely voice ceased, and its musical vibrations seemed to hover in the air after the sound was stilled. "It's beautiful," Patty said, at last, in an awed tone; "I had no idea you could write like that! Why, it's real poetry." "You're real poetry," said Blaney, simply, as he put the written paper in his pocket. "No, no," cried Patty, "give it to me. It's mine. You made it for me and it's mine. Nobody ever made a real poem for me before. I want it." "Oh, nonsense, you don't want it." "Indeed I do. I must have it." "Will you promise not to show it to anybody?" "'Course not! I'll show it to everybody!" "Then you can't have it. I'm sensitive, I admit, but I can't bear to have the children of my brain bruited to the world----" "I haven't a notion what bruited means, but I promise you I won't do that. I'll keep it sacredly guarded from human eyes, and read it to myself when I'm all alone. Why, Mr. Blaney, it's a wonderful poem. I've simply got to have it, and that's all there is about that!" "I give it to you, then, but don't,--please don't show it to the hilarious populace. It is for you only." "All right. I'll keep it for me only. But I haven't half thanked you for it. I do appreciate it, I assure you, and I feel guilty because I underrated your talent. But perhaps it is because I saw you do it, that I care so very much for it. Anyway, I thank you." Patty held out her hand in genuine gratitude, and, taking it gently, Blaney held it a moment as he said, "I claim my reward. May I come to see you in New York?" "Yes, indeed, I'll be awfully glad to have you. And Alla must come, too. I'll make a party for you as soon as the wedding is over. Will you be at that?" "At the reception, yes. And I shall see you there?" "Of course. I say, Mr. Blaney, why don't you write a wedding poem for Miss Galbraith? She'd love it! She wants everything for her wedding that can possibly be procured." "No. A poem of mine cannot be ordered, as from a caterer!" "Oh, forgive me! I didn't mean that. But, I thought you might write one, because I asked you." "No, Miss Fairfield. Anything you want for yourself, but not for others. A thousand times no! You understand?"