his
firmly moulded features, and an air of ease which rather surprised Mr.
Bradshaw, who did not know all the social experiences which had formed a
part of the old Master's history. The greeting between them was
courteous, but somewhat formal, as Mr. Bradshaw was acting as one of the
masters of ceremony. He nodded to Gifted in an easy way, and led them
both into the immediate Presence.

"This is my friend Professor Gridley, Mrs. Ketchum, whom I have the honor
of introducing to you,--a very distinguished scholar, as I have no doubt
you are well aware. And this is my friend Mr. Gifted Hopkins, a young
poet of distinction, whose fame will reach you by and by, if it has not
come to your ears already."

The two gentlemen went through the usual forms, the poet a little crushed
by the Presence, but doing his best. While the lady was making polite
speeches to them, Myrtle Hazard came forward. She was greatly delighted
to meet her old friend, and even looked upon the young poet with a degree
of pleasure she would hardly have expected to receive from his company.
They both brought with them so many reminiscences of familiar scenes and
events, that it was like going back for the moment to Oxbow Village. But
Myrtle did not belong to herself that evening, and had no opportunity to
enter into conversation just then with either of them. There was to be
dancing by and by, and the younger people were getting impatient that it
should begin. At last the music sounded the well-known summons, and the
floors began to ring to the tread of the dancers. As usual on such
occasions there were a large number of noncombatants, who stood as
spectators around those who were engaged in the campaign of the evening.
Mr. Byles Gridley looked on gravely, thinking of the minuets and the
gavots of his younger days. Mr. Gifted Hopkins, who had never acquired
the desirable accomplishment of dancing, gazed with dazzled and admiring
eyes at the wonderful evolutions of the graceful performers. The music
stirred him a good deal; he had also been introduced to one or two young
persons as Mr. Hopkins, the poet, and he began to feel a kind of
excitement, such as was often the prelude of a lyric burst from his pen.
Others might have wealth and beauty, he thought to himself, but what were
these to the gift of genius? In fifty years the wealth of these people
would have passed into other hands. In fifty years all these beauties
would be dead, or wrinkled