Farnsworth was so cynical of tone, that Patty broke her pledge of secrecy to the small extent of quoting a few words from the poem Blaney had given her. "Such as this," she cried: "----perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide." "That is poetry, indeed!" agreed Farnsworth, looking at her quizzically. "Did you say it was written to you?" "Yes, Sam Blaney wrote it, to me. I didn't mean to tell you, it's a confidential matter,--but you were so horrid about him----" "Wait a minute, Patty. Is that an original poem, that Blaney wrote for you alone?" "Yes, it is. I promised not to tell it to anybody, so I'll ask you to say nothing about it." "Tell me more of it." "No, I won't. I promised not to." "You needn't. _I'll_ tell _you_ what comes next: '----perhaps because her tresses beat A froth of gold about her throat, and poured In splendour to the feet that ever seemed Afloat.' Isn't that it?" "Yes! How did you know?" Patty's startled eyes were wide in amazement. "You dear little goose. I hate to give you a shock, Posy-girl, but those lines were written by a not altogether obscure poet,--one James Whitcomb Riley." "What! It's no such thing! Mr. Blaney wrote them about me! They begin----" "Wait! Don't break your promise of confidence. They begin: "'I loved her.--Why? I never knew.' Don't they?" "Yes, that's the poem Sam Blaney wrote for me---- "But he chanced to write it after Riley did--not before. Strange they were so similarly inspired, wasn't it?" "William Farnsworth, do you mean to tell me that that is a poem of Riley's,--and Sam Blaney palmed it off on me as his own!" "It looks that way, Patty. At any rate, those are Riley's lines. I've known the thing for years. It's a favourite of mine." "But I've a book of Riley's,--it isn't in that." "My child, you mustn't get annoyed with me, when I tell you you're not deeply versed in book-lore,--or deeply booked in verse-lore! For it's true. I admit that is not one of the poet's best known bits,--it's in 'Flying Islands of the Night,'--but it is so exquisite that it ought to be better known. And, by the way, Patty, if you thought Blaney did that gem, I don't wonder you admired him. But, dear little girl, do you see now that the man is capable of deception?" Patty looked deeply troubled. "You're sure, Billee,--you're _positive_ about this?" "As sure as I am of my own name." "Then I want nothing more to do with Sam Blaney or any of his crowd. I'll never forgive it. Why, he wrote the poem while I sat looking at him,--just as fast as he could scribble." "Doesn't that seem to prove it? He knew Riley's lines, and wrote them down. I doubt if the greatest poet that ever lived scribbled lines like that, offhand." "Of course they couldn't! You've done it, Little Billee. You've smashed my idols, blown up my air castles, knocked the pedestals from under my heroes----"