She is mine! She is mine! By her soul divine By her heart’s pure guile By her lips’ sweet smile She is mine! She is mine. Encapture? Aye In dreams as fair As angel whispers, low and rare, In thoughts as pure As childhood’s innocent allure In hopes as bright In deeds as white As altar lilies, bathed in light. She is mine! She is mine! By seal as true To spirit view As holy scripture writ in dew, By bond as fair To vision rare As holy scripture writ in air, By writ as wise to spirit eyes As holy scripture in God’s skies v She is mine! She is mine! Elude me? Nay, Ere earth reclaimed In joy unveils a Heaven regained, Ere sea unbound, Unfretting, rolls in mist—nor sound, Ere sun and star repentent crash In scattered ash, across the bar She is _mine_ I She is _mine_! A. L. WREN. CHAPTER VII. LOVE—AND THE SNAKE. Damocles de Warrenne, gentleman-cadet, on the eve of returning from Monksmead to the Military Academy of Sandhurst, appeared to have something on his mind as he sat on the broad coping of the terrace balustrade and idly kicked his heels. Every time he had returned to Monksmead from Wellingborough and Sandhurst, he had found Lucille yet more charming, delightful, and lovable. As her skirts and hair lengthened she became more and more the real companion, the pal, the adviser, without becoming any less the sportsman. He had always loved her quaint terms of endearment, slang, and epithets, but as she grew into a beautiful and refined and dignified girl, it was still more piquant to be addressed in the highly unladylike (or un-Smelliean) terms that she affected.