in a figurative sense, which it
is hoped no reader will interpret to her discredit.

The young poet was in need of consolation. It is true that he had seen
many remarkable sights during his visit to the city; that he had got
"smarted up," as his mother called it, a good deal; that he had been to
Mrs. Clymer Ketchum's party, where he had looked upon life in all its
splendors; and that he brought back many interesting experiences, which
would serve to enliven his conversation for a long time. But he had
failed in the great enterprise he had undertaken. He was forced to
confess to his revered parent, and his esteemed friend Susan Posey, that
his genius, which was freely acknowledged, was not thought to be quite
ripe as yet. He told the young lady some particulars of his visit to the
publisher, how he had listened with great interest to one of his poems,
"The Triumph of Song,"--how he had treated him with marked and flattering
attention; but that he advised him not to risk anything prematurely,
giving him the hope that by and by he would be admitted into that series
of illustrious authors which it was the publisher's privilege to present
to the reading public. In short, he was advised not to print. That was
the net total of the matter, and it was a pang to the susceptible heart
of the poet. He had hoped to have come home enriched by the sale of his
copyright, and with the prospect of seeing his name before long on the
back of a handsome volume.

Gifted's mother did all in her power to console him in his
disappointment. There was plenty of jealous people always that wanted to
keep young folks from rising in the world. Never mind, she did n't
believe but what Gifted could make jest as good verses as any of them
that they kept such a talk about. She had a fear that he might pine away
in consequence of the mental excitement he had gone through, and
solicited his appetite with her choicest appliances,--of which he partook
in a measure which showed that there was no immediate cause of alarm.

But Susan Posey was more than a consoler,--she was an angel to him in
this time of his disappointment. "Read me all the poems over again," she
said,--"it is almost the only pleasure I have left, to hear you read your
beautiful verses." Clement Lindsay had not written to Susan quite so
often of late as at some former periods of the history of their love.
Perhaps it was that which had made her look paler than usual for some
little