"Savile," said Aunt William, when they were sitting by the fire in the drawing-room, "I'm glad you're fond of poetry. Have you ever written any at all? You needn't be ashamed of it, my dear boy, if you have. I admire sentiment, but only up to a certain point, of course." "Well, it's odd you should say that. I wrote something yesterday. I say, you won't go and give it away, Aunt William?" "Most certainly not!" She grew animated. "Show it to me, if you have it with you. A taste for literature is in the family. Once a second cousin of ours--you never knew him--wrote me a sonnet!" "Did he, though? Well, I dare say it was all right. Here's my stuff. I rather thought I'd consult you. I want to send it to some one." Concealing his nervousness under a stern, even harsh demeanour, Savile took out a folded sheet of paper from a brown pigskin letter-case. Aunt William clasped her hands and leaned forward. Savile read aloud in an aggressive, matter-of-fact manner the following words:---- "My singing bird, my singing bird, Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing, oh sing to me, Nothing like it has ever been heard," (Here he dropped the letter-case, and picked it up, blushing at the contents that had fallen out.) "And I do love to hear thee sing." His aunt looked a little faint. She leant back and fanned herself, taking out her smelling-salts. "That's not all," said Savile. Warming to his work, he went on more gruffly:-- "What should I do if you should stop? Oh wilt thou sing for me alone? For I will fly to hear your notes: Your tune would melt a heart of stone." "My gracious, my dear, it's a poem!" said Aunt William. "Who said it wasn't? But you can't judge till you've heard the whole thing." She turned away her head and struggled with a smile, while he read the last verse defiantly and quickly, growing rather red:-- "I haven't got a stony heart Or whatever it is, it belongs to you: I vow myself thy slave, And always I shall e'er be true!" There was an embarrassed pause. "Well, I really think that last line is rather pretty," said Aunt William, who had regained her self-control. "But do you think it is quite--" "Is it all right to send to Her?" he said. "That's the point!" "Well, I can hardly say. Would your father----" "I say! You're not going to tell the Governor?" "No, never, Savile dear. It shall be our secret," said Aunt William, reassuringly. "Of course, I know this sort of thing is great rot," he said apologetically, "but women like it." "Oh, do they really?" said Aunt William. "Well! what I always say is, if you're born with a gift, you should cultivate it!" Savile (thinking this encouragement rather meagre) replaced the poem and said: "I shall have to be going now, Aunt William. Got an appointment." "With whom, my dear?"