onate
School--Swinburne, Rossetti, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and so on--at the time
that I wrote. My husband never wished me to publish them. He didn't like
them--he didn't understand them. I don't mind admitting to you, dear,
that since I lost him I have sent one or two of the less--well--shall we
say strongly coloured?--poems to the magazines at times, of course under
a _nom de plume_. But they were all returned. I think they were
considered too--well, too----However, I've given up the idea of making
a name as a poetess now, and very rarely show them to anybody; _very_
rarely."

Daphne answered, with absolute sincerity, that she was dying to see
them.

After lunch, when they retired to the little drawing-room, Mrs. Foster
sat down with her back to the light, and a slight flush on her cheek,
and took up the book.

Daphne sat in a low little crimson arm-chair exactly opposite her,
clasping her knees, her brown eyes fixed with the greatest interest as
Mrs. Foster turned and turned the pages as if unable to select a
suitable verse.

Then she began to read, in her soft, yet rather high voice, which seemed
suited only to gentle greetings and adieux, or quavering orders to
Henry.

"NIGHT TIME

_He glanced as he passed,
And I hope, and I quiver,
I howl and I shudder with pains;
And like a she-tiger
Or overcharged river,
My blood rushes on through my veins._"

She stopped suddenly.

"No, no, dear. I won't read this. Wait a minute. I remember now that was
the one that was returned because it was too--er----I'll find you
another one."

"Oh, do finish that one," said Daphne, "please! Isn't the light too much
for your eyes?"

She jumped up quickly and pulled down the blind an inch or two, and then
came back, having controlled herself.

Mrs. Foster looked at her rather sharply, and took no notice of what she
supposed was emotion.

"Ah, here is something more suited to you, darling."

SPRING

A QUESTION, AND AN ANSWER

_Will all the year be summer-time,
And each night have a moon?
Ah no, the Spring will quickly go,
And winter cometh soon._

_And will your clasp warm mine like wine?
And will you love me true?
Ah no, the autumn leaves arrive,
And we must bid adieu._

"That's a rather pretty thing, in its way, isn't it?" she said.

"Very."

"Here's one more.

A REMEMBRANCE

_Seems it well to see
A wild honey bee
Gold i