"I am afraid it will be believed in to the end of the chapter all the same," replied her hearer, with a smile. "And it isn't so unfair when all is said and done, since 'a love that is tender and true and strong crowneth the life of the giver.'" She turned on him sharply. "Where does that come from? Some extremely sentimental---- Why, Tom! I believe you wrote that--now did you? Come! own up!" "I might have guessed it wouldn't pass muster with a young person who has taken honours in English literature and knows the Elizabethan poets by heart," he replied gravely. "Yes! Marjory, I am responsible for that particular version of a time-honoured, crusted old sentiment. I wrote it in delirium, or something like it--if that is any excuse." She edged closer to him in girlish eagerness. "This is quite delightful. I never knew you wrote rhymes. I do, and burn them; but _you!_ Come, tell me the rest at once." "Perhaps I burn them, too." "Oh! but that is only pretence, you know, just to keep oneself in subjection. One remembers them all the same. I do. So now, once, twice, thrice!" He gave an odd little grimace. "It was last year when I had fever," he began apologetically. "In Paris?" "No! They had sent me to the country, and there was a stream and some reeds. I could see them as I lay in bed, and so---- Now, mind, if once I begin to swear I won't leave off under half-a-crown!" "I wouldn't mind giving three shillings if it were worth it; so go on, Tom, why should you be bashful?" "Because I was delirious when I wrote it, of course," he replied; yet there was a real tremor in his voice, as he began:-- "Where the river's golden sheen floats by The plumes of the tall reeds touch the sky, Like arrows from out a quiver. But one bends over to reach the stream, Dreaming of naught but the golden gleam, Weary for love of the river. "'Oh, river! river! thou flowest fast; Yet leave me one kiss as thou goest past-- One kiss, to be mine for ever!' She bent her head to the shining flood; On swept the river in careless mood, Mocking her poor endeavour. "'Oh, river! river! give back to me Some token of all I have given to thee, To show thou art my lover!' But the only answer to her prayer Was the shade of her own love mirrored there, With the reeds that grew above her. "The proud reeds chid her, yet still she sighed, Wondering such love could be so denied; While ever towards the ocean, Dreaming deep dreams of that future free, The river swept on to the unknown sea, Careless of her devotion.