"My dear Felix, are you sure you never heard that same thought read or quoted? It is beautiful, but this is not the first time I have heard it. Think, my dear little boy; try to remember where you saw it written." "Indeed, Edna, I never saw it anywhere. I am sure I never heard it either; for it seemed quite new when it bounced into my mind just now. Who else ever thought of it?" "Mr. Stanyan Bigg, an English poet, whose writings are comparatively unknown in this country. His works I have never seen, but I read a review of them in an English book, which contained many extracts; and that pretty metaphor which you used just now, was among them." "Is that review in our library?" "No, I am sure it is not; but you may have seen the lines quoted somewhere else." "Edna, I am very certain I never heard it before. Do you recollect how it is written in the Englishman's poem? If you can repeat it, I shall know instantly, because my memory is very good." "I think I can give you one stanza, for I read it when I was in great sorrow, and it made an impression upon me: 'The clouds, like grim black faces, come and go; One tall tree stretches up against the sky; It lets the rain through, like a trembling hand Pressing thin fingers on a watery eye. The moon came, but shrank back, like a young girl Who has burst in upon funereal sadness; One star came--Cleopatra-like, the Night Swallowed this one pearl in a fit of madness!' "Well, Felix, you are a truthful boy, and I can trust you!" "I never heard the poetry before, and I tell you, Edna, the idea is just as much mine as it is Mr. Biggs's!" "I believe you. Such coincidences are rare, and people are very loath to admit the possibility; but that they do occasionally occur, I have no doubt. Perhaps some day when you write a noble poem, and become a shining light in literature, you may tell this circumstance to the world; and bid it beware how it idly throws the charge of plagiarism against the set teeth of earnest, honest workers." "Edna, I look at my twisted feet sometimes, and I feel thankful that it is my body, not my mind, that is deformed. If I am ever able to tell the world anything, it will be how much I owe you; for I trace all holy thoughts and pretty ideas to you and your music and your writings." They sat there awhile in silence, watching heavy masses of cloud darken the sea and sky; and then Felix lifted his face from Edna's shoulder, and asked timidly: "Did you send Sir Roger away?" "He goes to Europe to-morrow, I believe." "Poor Sir Roger! I am sorry for him. I told mamma you never thought of him; that you loved nothing but books and flowers and music." "How do you know that?"