rive. Old Lady Lloyd worried quite absurdly over
this, and it haunted her like a spectre until the next Sewing Circle
day.

It met at Mrs. Moore's and Mrs. Moore was especially gracious to Old
Lady Lloyd, and insisted on her taking the wicker rocker in the parlour.
The Old Lady would rather have been in the sitting-room with the young
girls, but she submitted for courtesy's sake--and she had her reward.
Her chair was just behind the parlour door, and presently Janet Moore
and Sylvia Gray came and sat on the stairs in the hall outside, where a
cool breeze blew in through the maples before the front door.

They were talking of their favourite poets. Janet, it appeared, adored
Byron and Scott. Sylvia leaned to Tennyson and Browning.

"Do you know," said Sylvia softly, "my father was a poet? He published
a little volume of verse once; and, Janet, I've never seen a copy of
it, and oh, how I would love to! It was published when he was at
college--just a small, private edition to give his friends. He never
published any more--poor father! I think life disappointed him. But I
have such a longing to see that little book of his verse. I haven't
a scrap of his writings. If I had it would seem as if I possessed
something of him--of his heart, his soul, his inner life. He would be
something more than a mere name to me."

"Didn't he have a copy of his own--didn't your mother have one?" asked
Janet.

"Mother hadn't. She died when I was born, you know, but Aunty says there
was no copy of father's poems among mother's books. Mother didn't care
for poetry, Aunty says--Aunty doesn't either. Father went to Europe
after mother died, and he died there the next year. Nothing that he had
with him was ever sent home to us. He had sold most of his books before
he went, but he gave a few of his favourite ones to Aunty to keep for
me. HIS book wasn't among them. I don't suppose I shall ever find a
copy, but I should be so delighted if I only could."

When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer an inlaid
box of sandalwood. It held a little, slim, limp volume, wrapped in
tissue paper--the Old Lady's most treasured possession. On the fly-leaf
was written, "To Margaret, with the author's love."

The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves with trembling fingers and,
through eyes brimming with tears, read the verses, although she had
known them all by heart for years. She meant to give the book to Sylvia
for a birthday present--one