Mr. Tovey looked up from his weekly perusal of the _Journal of Literature_, to which he was a constant and esteemed contributor. “The parcel?” he said. “What parcel, Wordsworth? Oh, yes, I think I remember.” And then with a slightly humorous deprecation which had cost him two-thirds of a lifetime to acquire, “Suppose, Wordsworth, you light the fires with that parcel--and, Wordsworth, suppose you don’t make a noise when you close the door.” LVI At eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when Jimmy Dodson made his nightly pilgrimage to the little room, he was greeted eagerly by him who kept the chimney-side. “Our little treatise is in worthy hands at the English Museum?” he said. “But, good friend, I am so persuaded of it that I do not ask you to answer.” “I do answer all the same, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson with a fervour which was born of careful preparation. “I took it to the chief, the head man, the curator or whatever they call him--you see, old boy, I thought if I left it to an understrapper it might get mislaid.” “It might, it might,” said the poet with a smile of approval. “This little world of ours is so strange in its ways.” “And what is more,” said Jimmy Dodson, “I told him what it was. I told him it was absolutely the greatest poem in the world.” “That was doubtless wise,” said the poet with his curious simplicity. “Yet, what do you think, old boy?” said Jimmy Dodson with indignation. “He as good as said he didn’t believe it. He as good as called me a liar.” “Ah,” said the poet, breathing deep. “And then--and then, in what manner did you answer him?” “Why, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson proudly, “I did precisely what you would have done yourself. I whipped the string off the parcel; I handed him the first page of the manuscript, and I said, ‘There it is; now look at it for yourself!’” “Oh good, oh brave!” cried he who was sightless. “And--and----?” As his lips shaped the question, the breath of the dying poet came in great heavy gasps. The face of the unhappy Dodson was set like a piece of marble, but there was a curious intensity burning in his eyes. “And--and? Why, what do _you_ think, old boy?” said the faithful emissary, and he paused dramatically. “He was silent,” said the poet. “He did not speak.”