great battles. I was left to fight in a little one. Women have a flag
to fly, Mr. Brown, as well as men, and old maids have a flag as well as
women. I tried to keep mine flying.

VALENTINE. But you ceased to care for me. (_Tenderly._) I dare ask
your love no more, but I still ask you to put yourself into my keeping.
Miss Phoebe, let me take care of you.

PHOEBE. It cannot be.

VALENTINE. This weary teaching! Let me close your school.

PHOEBE. Please, sir.

VALENTINE. If not for your own sake, I ask you, Miss Phoebe, to do it
for mine. In memory of the thoughtless recruit who went off laughing
to the wars. They say ladies cannot quite forget the man who has used
them ill; Miss Phoebe, do it for me because I used you ill.

PHOEBE. I beg you--no more.

VALENTINE (_manfully_). There, it is all ended. Miss Phoebe, here is
my hand on it.

PHOEBE. What will you do now?

VALENTINE. I also must work. I will become a physician again, with
some drab old housekeeper to neglect me and the house. Do you foresee
the cobwebs gathering and gathering, Miss Phoebe?

PHOEBE. Oh, sir!

VALENTINE. You shall yet see me in Quality Street, wearing my stock
all awry.

PHOEBE. Oh, oh!

VALENTINE. And with snuff upon my sleeve.

PHOEBE. Sir, sir!

VALENTINE. No skulker, ma'am, I hope, but gradually turning into a
grumpy, crusty, bottle-nosed old bachelor.

PHOEBE. Oh, Mr. Brown!

VALENTINE. And all because you will not walk across the street with me.

PHOEBE. Indeed, sir, you must marry--and I hope it may be some one who
is really like a garden.

VALENTINE. I know but one. That reminds me, Miss Phoebe, of something
I had forgot. (_He produces a paper from his pocket._) 'Tis a trifle
I have wrote about you. But I fear to trouble you.

(PHOEBE'S _hands go out longingly for it._)

PHOEBE (_reading_). 'Lines to a Certain Lady, who is Modestly unaware
of her Resemblance to a Garden. Wrote by her servant, V. B.'

(_The beauty of this makes her falter. She looks up._)

VALENTINE (_with a poet's pride_). There is more of it, ma'am.

PHOEBE (_reading_)

The lilies are her pretty thoughts,
Her shoulders are the may,
Her smiles are all forget-me-nots,
The path 's her gracious way,

The roses that do line it are
Her fancies walking round,
'Tis sweetly smelling lavender
In which my lady's gowned.

(MISS PHOEBE _has thought herself strong, but she is not able