e worthier of a nobler fame;
And so, dear friend, although unknown thy name
Unto the shouting herd, we would give tongue
To our deep thought, and the world's great among
By this symbolic laurel thee proclaim.

And if, perchance, the herd shall find thee out
In coming time, and many a nobler crown
To one they love to honour gladly throw;
Wilt thou not turn thee from their eager shout,
And whisper o'er these leaves, then sere and brown:
'Thou'rt late, O world! love knew it long ago?'

The reader will probably agree with Angel in considering the last line
the best. But, of course, she thought the whole was wonderful.

"How wonderful it must be to be able to write!" she said, with a look in
her face which was worth all the books ever written.

"And how wonderful even to have something written to one like that!"

"Surely that must have happened to you," said Henry, slyly.

"You're only laughing at me."

"No, I'm not. You don't know what may have been written to you. Poems
may quite well have been written to you without your having heard of
them. The poet mayn't have thought them worthy of you."

"What nonsense! Why, I don't know any poets!"

"Oh!" said Henry.

"I mean, except you."

"And how do you know that I haven't written a whole book full of poems
to you? I've known you--how long now?"

"Two months next Monday," said Angel, with that chronological accuracy
on such matters which seems to be a special gift of women in love. Men
in love are nothing like so accurate.

"Well, that's long enough, isn't it? And I've had nothing else to do,
you know."

"But you don't care enough about me?"

"You never know."

"But tell me really, have you written something for me?"

"Ah, you'd like to know now, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would. Tell me. It would make me very happy."

"It really would?"

"You know it would."

"But why?"

"It would."

"But you couldn't care for the poetry, unless you cared for the poet?"

"Oh, I don't know. Poetry's poetry, isn't it, whoever makes it? But what
if I did care a little for the poet?"

"Do you mean you do, Angel?"

"Ah, you want to know now, don't you?"

"Tell me. Do tell me."

"I'll tell you when you read me my poem," and as Angel prepared to run
off with a laugh, Henry called after her,--

"You will really? It's a bargain?"

"Yes, it's a bargain," she called back, as she tripped off again d