of it. The poem was, in fact,
a chaplet of short poem-beads. Many of its passages had the peculiarity
that they came to a sudden end exactly when the listeners supposed that
the interest of the thing was only going to begin. When a page was ended
the poet lifted it, so to speak, with the sudden effort of one hand and
arm, as though it were something heavy like a shield, and then flung it
from him, looking fixedly into the eyes of some one of the three
listeners the while. This formality impressed Mary Blanchet immediately.
It seemed the very passion and wrestling of poetic inspiration; the
prophetic fury rushing into action through the prophet.

Minola once or twice glanced at the face of Victor Heron. At first it
was full of respectful and anxious attention, animated now and then by a
sudden flicker of surprise. Of late these feelings and moods had
gradually changed, and after a while the settling-down condition had
clearly arrived. At length Miss Grey could see that while Mr. Heron
still maintained an attitude of the most courteous attention, his ears
were decidedly with his heart, and that was far away--with his own
grievance and the St. Xavier's Settlements.

At last it was over. The close, for all their previous preparation, took
the small audience by surprise. It came thus:

I asked of my soul--What is death?
I asked of my love--What is hate?
I asked of decay--Art thou life?
And of night--Art thou day?
Did they answer?

The poet looked up with eyes of keen and almost fierce inquiry. The
audience quailed a little, but, not feeling the burden of response
thrown upon them, resumed their expectant attitudes, waiting to hear
what the various oracles had said to their poetic questioner. But they
were taken in, if one might use so homely an expression. The poem was
all over. That was the beginning and the end of it. The poet flung away
his last page, and sank dreamy, exhausted, back into his chair. A moment
of awful silence succeeded. Then he gathered up his illuminated scrolls,
rose from his chair, bowed gravely, and left the room, Mary Blanchet
hurried after him.

Minola was perplexed, depressed, and remorseful. She thought there must
be something in the productions which made their author so much in
earnest, and she was afraid she had not seemed attentive enough, or that
Blanchet had detected her in her early inclination to smile. There was
an embarrassed pause when Victor and she we