“It's anything you like when I've done the tale.” “I wanted to be sure of that. I must go now. I've, I've an appointment.” And he left me. Had my eyes not been held I might have known that that broken muttering over the fire was the swan-song of Charlie Mears. But I thought it the prelude to fuller revelation. At last and at last I should cheat the Lords of Life and Death! When next Charlie came to me I received him with rapture. He was nervous and embarrassed, but his eyes were very full of light, and his lips a little parted. “I've done a poem,” he said; and then quickly: “it's the best I've ever done. Read it.” He thrust it into my hand and retreated to the window. I groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to criticise--that is to say praise--the poem sufficiently to please Charlie. Then I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding his favorite centipede metres, had launched into shorter and choppier verse, and verse with a motive at the back of it. This is what I read: “The day is most fair, the cheery wind Halloos behind the hill, Where bends the wood as seemeth good, And the sapling to his will! Riot O wind; there is that in my blood That would not have thee still! “She gave me herself, O Earth, O Sky: Grey sea, she is mine alone--I Let the sullen boulders hear my cry, And rejoice tho' they be but stone! 'Mine! I have won her O good brown earth, Make merry! 'Tis bard on Spring; Make merry; my love is doubly worth All worship your fields can bring! Let the hind that tills you feel my mirth At the early harrowing.” “Yes, it's the early harrowing, past a doubt,” I said, with a dread at my heart. Charlie smiled, but did not answer. “Red cloud of the sunset, tell it abroad; I am victor. Greet me O Sun, Dominant master and absolute lord Over the soul of one!” “Well?” said Charlie, looking over my shoulder. I thought it far from well, and very evil indeed, when he silently laid a photograph on the paper--the photograph of a girl with a curly head, and a foolish slack mouth. “Isn't it--isn't it wonderful?” he whispered, pink to the tips of his ears, wrapped in the rosy mystery of first love. “I didn't know; I didn't think--it came like a thunderclap.” “Yes. It comes like a thunderclap. Are you very happy, Charlie?” “My God--she--she loves me!” He sat down repeating the last words to himself. I looked at the hairless face, the narrow shoulders already bowed by desk-work, and wondered when, where, and bow he had loved in his past lives. “What will your mother say?” I asked, cheerfully. “I don't care a damn what she says.”