y," explained Mrs. Foster. "There isn't much of a kitchen
garden, only a few gooseberries and apples, as you know, dear, but it's
nice to think they grow there, isn't it?"

"Very."

"Of course, I can't make much show with them. Henry always eats them
before they're ripe, which is _rather_ hard. But he's a good, honest
boy. One of his sisters has gone in for making blouses--in the village,
you know. She's a brave girl, and I feel sure will get on."

"She must be! Have you ever ...?"

"Oh _no_. Of course not. _I_ couldn't. When a woman reaches a certain
age, my dear, a certain style is necessary. I don't mean great expense,
but simple little things that would suit you, darling, wouldn't do for
me. Now that little pink thing that you're wearing--I should look
_nothing_ in it, and yet I dare say Henry's sister.... Where did you get
it, dear?"

"Well, it _came_ from Paquin's," said Daphne. "It's not new."

"Oh! Well, we mustn't be always talking of chiffons together, that's
very frivolous. You're fond of poetry, aren't you?"

"Not so very," said Daphne truthfully.

"But you would like to hear mine; I know you would, dear," said Mrs.
Foster, nodding, and patting her hand. "Dear girl, you shall. I've got a
tiny little volume, all in manuscript. It's quite a secret, darling.
Hardly any one--now--knows that I was poetical. But I can tell you
anything--you're so sympathetic. I had at one time a great wish to be a
sort of--not exactly Elizabeth Barrett Browning, or Christina
Rossetti--you know who I mean, don't you?"

"Oh yes."

"But a singer of songs--songs of feeling. Well, let us go into the
garden. I will show it to you later."

They sprinkled a few dead flowers, picked a few weeds, and then Mrs.
Foster became thoughtful, took off her gloves, and went to her room and
remained there for some time. She came down with a manuscript book in
her hand. It had a shiny cover, and in the right-hand corner a piece of
the cover was cut out. On the paper, showing through, was written in
Mrs. Foster's delicate handwriting, "Fireflies of Fancy."

"This," she said, patting it, "is my little book, and after lunch I'll
read you some of the poems, dear Daphne, though I'm not at all sure that
all of them are quite suitable for you to hear."

"Oh, Mrs. Foster!" Daphne found difficulty in believing it.

"You see," continued the delicate-looking old lady, in her sweet,
refined voice, "I was very much under the influence of the Passi