turned the poet, after a significant
silence, "indeed, I have prayed there might be. In some little nook among
the pines, where the brook for ever sings and the petals of the apple
blossoms glide away to fairyland upon its shining surface, while
butterflies float lazily here and there, if reverent hands might put the
flowering of my genius into a modest little book--I should be tempted,
yes, sorely tempted."

"Dear Mr. Perkins," cried Elaine, ecstatically clapping her hands, "how
perfectly glorious that would be! To think how much sweetness and beauty
would go into the book, if that were done!"

"Additionally," corrected Mr. Perkins, with a slight flush.

"Yes, of course I mean additionally. One could smell the apple blossoms
through the printed page. Oh, Mr. Perkins, if I only had the means, how
gladly would I devote my all to this wonderful, uplifting work!"

The poet glanced around furtively, then drew closer to Elaine. "I may tell
you," he murmured, "in strict confidence, something which my lips have
never breathed before, with the assurance that it will be as though
unsaid, may I not?"

"Indeed you may!"

"Then," whispered Mr. Perkins, "I am living in that hope. My dear Uncle
Ebeneezer, though now departed, was a distinguished patron of the arts.
Many a time have I read him my work, assured of his deep, though
unexpressed sympathy, and, lulled by the rhythm of our spoken speech, he
has passed without a jar from my dreamland to his own. I know he would
never speak of it to any one--dear Uncle Ebeneezer was too finely grained
for that--but still I feel assured that somewhere within the walls of that
sorely afflicted house, a sum of--of money--has been placed, in the hope
that I might find it and carry out this beautiful work."

"Have you hunted?" demanded Elaine, her eyes wide with wonder.

"No--not hunted. I beg you, do not use so coarse a word. It jars upon my
poet's soul with almost physical pain."

"I beg your pardon," returned Elaine, "but----"

"Sometimes," interrupted the poet, in a low tone, "when I have felt
especially near to Uncle Ebeneezer's spirit, I have barely glanced in
secret places where I have felt he might expect me to look for it, but, so
far, I have been wholly unsuccessful, though I know that I plainly read
his thought."

"Some word--some clue--did he give you none?"

"None whatever, except that once or twice he said that he would see that I
was suitably provided for. He intimated