Upon my darkness may there well be fall Light of all darkness, darkness of all light; Starfire of amber, dew of deathlike sheen; Waters that burn, pale fires that sicken all, And shadows all aglow with saffron light; But comes my lady who is Glory's queen, And all the bright is dark, and pallid dark the bright. Minola read this dedication again and again, puzzled, amused, angry, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to cry. "Am I glory's queen?" she asked of her own soul. "And if I am, am I letting light or darkness in upon my poor poet? Am I depriving him of the amber, the dew, and the saffron light, or not? Is it praise or blame, this dedication? I suppose it must be praise, but I don't think anybody could tell from its words. Oh, my dear little Mary Blanchet, why must you have a brother--and why must that brother be a poet?" There was one consolation--the dedication did not set forth her name, and nobody could know who the lady patroness of the poet might be. Minola felt inclined to be offended that she should be in any way brought into this folly, but she was not certain whether remonstrance or complaint might not be more ridiculous than utter silence. After all nobody knew anything about her or cared, she said. If she were to complain in any way, it would only grieve poor Mary, whom the thought that her brother could have offended her friend and leader would drive well-nigh distracted. "What does it matter if I am made a little ridiculous in my own eyes?" she asked herself. "It is only in my own eyes, I suppose. Mary will look on it all as delightful; her brother of course means it for the best, and thinks it superb poetry; and there is no one else likely to care either way. It is not much to be a little more ridiculous in my own eyes than I have already made myself."