as well as I do poetry; but I am afraid I have not so
much taste as some girls have. You remember how I liked that picture in
the illustrated magazine, and you said it was horrid. I have been afraid
since to like almost anything, for fear you should tell me some time or
other it was horrid. Don't you think I shall ever learn to know what is
nice from what is n't?

Oh, dear Clement, I wish you would do one thing to please me. Don't say
no, for you can do everything you try to,--I am sure you can. I want you
to write me some poetry,--just three or four little verses TO SUZIE. Oh,
I should feel so proud to have some lines written all on purpose for me.
Mr. Hopkins wrote some the other day, and printed them in the paper, "To
M---e." I believe he meant them for Myrtle,--the first and last letter
of her name, you see, "M" and "e."

Your letter was a dear one, only so short! I wish you would tell me all
about what you are doing at Alderbank. Have you made that model of
Innocence that is to have my forehead, and hair parted like mine! Make it
pretty, do, that is a darling.

Now don't make a face at my letter. It is n't a very good one, I know;
but your poor little Susie does the best she can, and she loves you so
much!

Now do be nice and write me one little bit of a mite of a poem,--it will
make me just as happy!

I am very well, and as happy as I can be when you are away.

Your affectionate SUSIE.

(Directed to Mr. Clement Lindsay, Alderbank.)

The envelope of this letter was unbroken, as was before said, when the
young man took it from his desk. He did not tear it with the hot
impatience of some lovers, but cut it open neatly, slowly, one would say
sadly. He read it with an air of singular effort, and yet with a certain
tenderness. When he had finished it, the drops were thick on his
forehead; he groaned and put his hands to his face, which was burning
red.

This was what the impulse of boyhood, years ago, had brought him to! He
was a stately youth, of noble bearing, of high purpose, of fastidious
taste; and, if his broad forehead, his clear, large blue eyes, his
commanding features, his lips, firm, yet plastic to every change of
thought and feeling, were not an empty mask, might not improbably claim
that Promethean quality of which the girl's letter had spoken,--the
strange, divine, dread gift of genius.

This poor, simple, innocent, trusting creature, so utterly incapable of
coming into an