And what was Meenie—or Rose Meenie, or Love Meenie, as she might be called now, after having all those things written about her—what was she doing awake and up at such a time? At all events, her morning greeting was there confronting her. She had brought it and put it on the little dressing-table; and as she brushed out her beautiful abundant brown tresses, her eyes went back again and again to the pencilled lines, and she seemed not ill-pleased. For this was what she read: _The hinds are feeding upon the hill,_ _And the hares on the fallow lea;_ _Awake, awake, Love Meenie!_ _Birds are singing in every tree;_ _And roses you’ll find on your window-sill_ _To scent the morning air;_ _Awake, awake, Love Meenie,_ _For the world is shining fair!_ _O who is the mistress of bird and flower?_ _Ben Clebrig knows, I ween!_ _Awake, awake, Love Meenie,_ _To show them their mistress and queen!_ And it could hardly be expected that she should bring any very keen critical scrutiny to bear on these careless verses of Ronald’s (of which she had now obtained a goodly number, by dint of wheedling and entreaty, and even downright insistence), seeing that nearly all of them were written in her praise and honour; but even apart from that she had convinced herself that they were very fine indeed; and that one or two of them were really pathetic; and she was not without the hope that, when the serious affairs of life had been attended to, and a little leisure and contemplation become possible, Ronald might turn to his poetical labours again and win some little bit of a name for himself amongst a few sympathetic souls here and there. That he could do so, if he chose, she was sure enough. It was all very well for him to make light of these scraps and fragments; and to threaten to destroy them if she revealed the fact of their existence to anybody; but she knew their worth, if he did not; and when, in this or that magazine or review, she saw a piece of poetry mentioned with praise, her first impulse was to quickly read it in order to ask herself whether Ronald—given time and opportunity—could not have done as well. Moreover, the answer to that question was invariably the same; and it did not leave her unhappy. It is true (for she would be entirely dispassionate) he had not written anything quite so fine as ’Christabel’—as yet; but the years were before him; she had confidence; the world should see—and give him a fitting welcome all in good time.