“That you know so much about it, ma'am.” “I know people connected with the papers, and thought it might encourage you to see something in print. The newspapers publish so many poems now!” “I wish it hadn't been just that one my mother gave you!” “Why?” “For one thing, it is not finished--as you will see when you read it more carefully.” “I did see a line I thought hardly rhythmical, but--” “Excuse me, ma'am; the want of rhythm there was intentional.” “I am sorry for that. Intention is the worst possible excuse for wrong! The accent should always be made to fall in the right place.” “Beyond a doubt--but might not the right place alter with the sense?” “Never. The rule is strict” “Is there no danger of making the verse monotonous?” “Not that I know.” “I have an idea, ma'am, that our great poets owe much of their music to the liberties they take with the rhythm. They treat the rule as its masters, and break it when they see fit.” “You must be wrong there! But in any case you must not presume to take the liberties of a great poet.” “It is a poor reward for being a great poet to be allowed to take liberties. I should say that, doing their work to the best of their power, they were rewarded with the discovery of higher laws of verse. Every one must walk by the light given him. By the rules which others have laid down he may learn to walk; but once his heart is awake to truth, and his ear to measure, melody and harmony, he must walk by the light, and the music God gives him.” “That is dangerous doctrine, Andrew!” said the lady, with a superior smile. “But,” she continued, “I will mark what faults I see, and point them out to you.” “Thank you, ma'am, but please do not send the verses anywhere.” “I will not, except I find them worthy. You need not be afraid. For my father's sake I will have an eye to your reputation.” “I am obliged to you, ma'am,” returned Andrew, but with his curious smile, hard to describe. It had in it a wonderful mixing of sweetness and humor, and a something that seemed to sit miles above his amusement. A heavenly smile it was, knowing too much to be angry. It had in it neither offense nor scorn. In respect of his poetry he was shy like a girl, but he showed no rejection of the patronage forced upon him by the lady. He rose and stood a moment. “Well, Andrew, what is it?” “When will you allow me to call for the verses?” “In the course of a week or so. By that time I shall have made up my mind. If in doubt, I shall ask my father.” “I wouldn't like the laird to think I spend my time on poetry.” “You write poetry, Andrew! A man should not do what he would not have known.” “That is true, ma'am; I only feared an erroneous conclusion.” “I will take care of that. My father knows that you are a hard-working young man. There is not one of his farms in better order than yours. Were it otherwise, I should not be so interested in your poetry.”