e shawl, with his arm about her, or her head
resting on his shoulder. You see no one knew much about them then, and
they kept so to themselves. Then there is his unfortunate habit, that
you cannot help feeling ought not to belong to a person of his
intelligence. It is a great pity."

Hanny sighed. She was to know a great deal more about the world later
on, and the appreciation that was spread as a garment about the poet
when his life's fitful fever ended.

There was an influx of quite elderly people one afternoon; and Hanny,
gathering up some books, stole up to the little cottage, quite assured
no one would need her, or even miss her.

The corner of books had been "cleared up." In the wide fireplace, there
was a jar of feathery asparagus, and on the table a vase of flowers.
There were a number of pictures, Hanny noticed. She had hardly glanced
about the room before,--the plain, low-ceiled room to which people were
to make pilgrimages as time went on.

The poet sat by the table in a dreamy, indolent mood.

"Did you find what you wanted the other day?" he asked gently.

"Oh, yes! And I have read 'The Saracen.' It interested me so, I couldn't
leave it a moment. I didn't want to like Saladin so much; but I had to.
But I shall never give up Richard."

He smiled a little at that, kindly, cordially, and her heart warmed to
him. The pervasive eyes were so deep and beautiful! In spite of the
pallor and attenuation, the face had a rare charm.

"So Richard is your hero? Well, you will doubtless change your heroes a
good many times before you get through with life. I think I had a boy's
fancy for Saladin once. Yet heroes come to be quite common-place people
after all. I wonder if I have any more that you would like?"

Hanny said they had several books yet, and she was going down to West
Farms in a few days. She wanted to finish "The White Rose of England."

"History in romance,--I dare say that suits young people best."

She stood in a sort of vague uncertainty.

"Well?" in a voice of suggestive inquiry, as if she might ask him
anything.

"Oh!" she cried, summoning all her courage, and flushing as she did so,
"will you please tell me who the pretty lady in blue was, who came up
the other day in the carriage? She looked like a poet!"

He did laugh then, softly, as if laughing was a little strange.

"Is that your idea of a poet? Well, she _is_ one,--an airy, light-winged
poet with dainty conceits, and a charming woma