But she interrupted him: "I certainly don't think it's funny. I think it's a _lovely_ poem! I think they're _all_ lovely poems! I expected you to appreciate them, but as you don't--" And she put out a peremptory hand for the book. But as Peter continued to stare at her, she perceived his amusement, and her resentment gave way to mirth. "Oh, Peter, do forgive me for being cross to you, but you see----" "I see that you're proud of these poems!" he exclaimed, his own eyes twinkling merrily. "Yes," she admitted, "I am proud of them. I really do think they're the loveliest poems ever written!" And she met his laughing gaze quite shamelessly. "And you're glad--yes, _glad_--that she's turned out a poet!" he accused. "Yes," confessed Mrs. Caldwell again, "I'm glad!" And she leaned earnestly toward him: "_Oh, Peter, isn't she wonderful_?" But Peter regarded her severely. "Ah, the deceit of woman! And I believed you when you claimed to be distressed! I sympathized with you!" But Mrs. Caldwell was not to be abashed: "I've been a shocking hypocrite, haven't I? But you're so clever, Peter, that I expected you to see through me." "I trusted you!" he mourned. "Oh, Peter! Peter! That's the way a man always seeks to excuse his stupidity when a woman gets the best of him! But you can trust my sincerity now. And you can sympathize with me if Sheila's _not_ a poet. You seem to doubt her being one!" "She isn't a poet--yet. She may become one. I can't tell about that. What I am sure of is that she has a remarkable mind--as I told you long ago. She has things to express, and evidently the time has come when she wants to express them. That's the hopeful point." "Then she is promising--for all your laughter?" "Indeed she is! These poems are funny--but every now and then there's a flash of light through them. Mrs. Caldwell, I believe in the _light_. I don't know what Sheila will do with it, but it's there--and it's wonderful!" The tears were in Mrs. Caldwell's eyes again, not the bright tears of anger, but the soft mist that rises from a heart profoundly moved. As Peter spoke, the drops overflowed and rolled slowly down her cheeks, but she was unconscious of them. "You don't know what this means to me!" she said. "I didn't know you would feel like this about it. You deceived me so thoroughly! But now I wonder why I didn't realize, in spite of all your protestations, that you'd care just this deeply. I should have understood what things of the mind are to you--you were my grandfather's friend!" "Yes, I was your grandfather's friend. And he was a marvellous man, Peter. It's the proudest thing I can say of myself--that I was his friend." Then, quickly, as if she had closed a treasure box, she turned from the subject of her old friendship--which Peter knew might have been more--to that of Sheila. "What shall I do with my poet, Peter? I'm as much afraid of her as I said I should be--and as unfit to help her."