"Why not here? I don't want you to leave Shadyville. I can't do without you! But I want you to do something splendid here. Peter, why don't you write a book?" He laughed: "Dear Mrs. Caldwell, to write a book requires more than the determination or the wish to write one." "Genius?" "Not necessarily. But at least a special kind of ability. The divine fire has never burned on my hearth--not even a tiny spark of it!" "Then you think it's rather a great thing to be able to write?" "I do indeed!" And the reverence of the book-lover thrilled through his tone. "I'm glad you feel that way about writers, Peter," she remarked archly, "because--we have one up at our house." And she extended a note-book to him, a thin, paper-backed book such as his class used for compositions. "You mean--Sheila?" For he had expected this. "Yes. It's happened!--as I told you it would." And her voice was very grave now. He opened the book--and discovered that Sheila's efforts were poems. "I'll read them to-night," he said cautiously. But Mrs. Caldwell would not let him escape so easily: "No, Peter, please. If you have the time, read them now. There are only a few, and I can't go home without a message from you about them. Sheila's waiting up there--and she's simply tense!" "Then she knows you've brought them to me?" "Of course. Do you think I'd have done it without her permission? Peter, don't neglect your manners with your grandchildren." "I deserve the rebuke, Mrs. Caldwell. But if Sheila wants me to see her poems, why hasn't she brought them to me herself?" "Too shy! Peter, poets are _very_ sensitive. It's an awful thing to have one in your family!" "Oh, you won't find it so bad." "Yes, I shall. I always told you it would happen. And I always told you, too, that I couldn't cope with such a--calamity." "Well, there's still hope that this may be a case of 'sweet sixteen' instead of genius. I'll take a peep and give you a verdict." "She's a _poet_," insisted Mrs. Caldwell, obstinately convinced of the worst. And she fixed her eyes on Peter's face, as he read, with an eagerness that, save for her lamentations, might have seemed anxiety to have her opinion confirmed. Presently Peter chuckled. "What are you laughing at, Peter?" "Have you read the 'Ode to the Evening Star'?" "Yes, I've read them all." "Well, then----" "Well, then--_what_?" "You know why I'm laughing." "You think it's _funny_?" And there was an unmistakable note of indignation in the question. "Of course I think it's funny! Don't you?" There was no reply, and Peter looked up from the note-book. "_Don't_ you think it's funny?" he repeated. And then he stared at her. Her cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes were glittering with angry tears. "Why, I thought--" he began.