So I have built to-day, more precious than a dream; And I have painted peace upon the sky above; And I have made immense and misty seas that seem More kind to me than life, more fair to me than love, More beautiful than love. And I have built a House, a House upon the brink Of high and twisted cliffs,--the sea's low singing fills it. And there my Secret Friend abides, and there I think I'll hide my heart away before to-morrow kills it, A cold to-morrow kills it. Yes, I have built to-day, a wall against to-morrow, So let to-morrow knock, I shall not be afraid, For none shall give me death, and none shall give me sorrow, And none shall spoil this darling day that I have made. No storm shall stir my sea. No night but mine shall shade This day that I have made. "We will start on our quest to-morrow," said Anonyma. "To-day I must work." Nobody in Anonyma's circle was ever allowed to forget that she spent four hours a week in the service of her country. You would never guess how much insight into the souls of the poor, four hours a week can give to a person like Anonyma. She had written two books about the Brown Borough since the outbreak of War. The provincial Press had been much impressed by their vivid picture of slum realities. Anonyma's poor were always yearning, yearning to be understood and loved by a ministering upper class, yearning for light, for art, for self-expression, for novels by high-souled ladies. The atmosphere of Anonyma's fiction was thick with yearning. Anonyma always came home from her Work with what she called "word-vignettes" in her notebook. She gave her Family the benefit of these during the rest of the week, besides fitting them into her books. So that although Cousin Gustus always conscientiously bought a dozen copies of each novel as it came out, he really wasted his money, for he was obliged to know all his wife's copy by heart before it got into print. By speaking each thought as well as writing it, Anonyma rather unfairly won a reputation twice over with the same material. Anonyma produced a vignette now, in order to show how necessary it was that she should hurry to her yearning flock. "I came into the room of one of my sailors' wives last week, and I found her with a baby sobbing on her breast, and an empty hearth at her feet. I thought of the eternal tragedy of womanhood. I said, 'Will my love help, my dear?'" There was a pause, and Cousin Gustus sighed. "What did she say?" asked Kew, without expecting an answer from the artist. After all, a word-vignette is not intended to have a sequel. It is supposed to fall complete with a little splash into your silent understanding. I must say Kew was rather tiresome in refusing to be content with the splash. "So few women really understand how to stop a child crying," said Cousin Gustus, speaking from bitter and universal experience. "That's the point," said Kew. "The child had probably swallowed a pin."