them for a while, and
rush into the deliriums and dangers of the great city.

Susan smiled. Gifted hardly knew whether to be pleased with her
sympathy, or vexed that she did not take his leaving more to heart. The
smile held out bravely for about a quarter of a minute. Then there came
on a little twitching at the corners of the mouth. Then the blue eyes
began to shine with a kind of veiled glimmer. Then the blood came up
into her cheeks with a great rush, as if the heart had sent up a herald
with a red flag from the citadel to know what was going on at the
outworks. The message that went back was of discomfiture and
capitulation. Poor Susan was overcome, and gave herself up to weeping
and sobbing.

The sight was too much for the young poet. In a wild burst of passion he
seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips, exclaiming, "Would that you
could be mine forever!" and Susan forgot all that she ought to have
remembered, and, looking half reproachfully but half tenderly through
her tears, said, in tones of infinite sweetness, "O Gifted!"

CHAPTER XXV

THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER.

It was settled that Master Byles Gridley and Mr. Gifted Hopkins should
leave early in the morning of the day appointed, to take the nearest
train to the city. Mrs. Hopkins labored hard to get them ready, so that
they might make a genteel appearance among the great people whom they
would meet in society. She brushed up Mr. Gridley's best black suit, and
bound the cuffs of his dress-coat, which were getting a little worried.
She held his honest-looking hat to the fire, and smoothed it while it
was warm, until one would have thought it had just been ironed by the
hatter himself. She had his boots and shoes brought into a more
brilliant condition than they had ever known: if Gifted helped, it was
to his credit as much as if he had shown his gratitude by polishing off
a copy of verses in praise of his benefactor.

When she had got Mr. Gridley's encumbrances in readiness for the
journey, she devoted herself to fitting out her son Gifted. First, she
had down from the garret a capacious trunk, of solid wood, but covered
with leather, and adorned with brass-headed nails, by the cunning
disposition of which, also, the paternal initials stood out on the
rounded lid, in the most conspicuous manner. It was his father's trunk,
and the first thing that went into it, as the widow lifted the cover,
and the smothering, shut-up smell struck an old chord