And Peter, lounging on the leafy veranda and appreciatively sipping Mrs. Caldwell's fragrant amber brew, lifted a languidly interested face: "How are you going to stop time for Sheila? Of course you've done it for yourself, but not even you, fairy godmother, can do that for other people." "I don't intend to try. I don't want to try. Because--when my little girl goes--it's time that will bring me some one better." "The young lady, dear Mrs. Caldwell. The young lady--inevitably." "No, Peter--the woman!" And Mrs. Caldwell's voice rang with pride and confidence. "There's the making of one in Sheila, Peter--of a real woman!" "What's become of the poet you used to see in her?" he inquired. "Oh, you've shut that safely into a cage of books. I'm not afraid of it any more." "It can still sing behind the bars, you know," he warned her. "No," she said, growing serious again, "it wouldn't--in Sheila's case. At least it wouldn't unless it got into just the right cage, hung in the sunshine and the south wind. That's what I'm afraid of, Peter--that Sheila herself will be snared into the wrong cage!" But even while Mrs. Caldwell spoke, Sheila was standing at the open door of the right cage, gazing in with illumined eyes. The spring was at its height, as warm and ripely blooming as early summer, and Sheila had slipped away to her favorite haunt of the back garden. She had taken a book with her, one of Peter's recommendation, and as she lay on the soft, fresh grass, she idly turned the pages, not from any desire to read, but for the pleasure of touching the leaves and knowing that, if she liked, she had only to look within for words that would create a fairyland as easily as the fingers of the spring had done. But presently, sated with mere earth-sweetness, she lifted herself on her elbow and opened the book widely where her hand had finally rested. It was the choice of chance, that page; but, as happens every now and then, chance and the Shaping Power were at that moment one. For shining on the white leaf, as if written in silver, were the lines that have stirred every potential poet to rapture and self-knowledge: --magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Sheila read them with no fore-warning of their moving music. They flashed, winged, into her tranquil world--and shook it to its foundations. For the first time the full sense of beauty rushed upon her, and she caught her breath with the keen, aching ecstasy of it: --magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. She read the lines again, and now aloud, softly, with a beauty-broken breath. She had wanted something, and all the while this--_this_--had been waiting for her. Compared to the joy of it, what was the joy of looking into a mirror and finding oneself fair? What was any other beauty beside this beauty of words, of subtle harmony and exquisite imagery?