forget all she has done
for us."

"I understand that you are a poet, sir," the minister said, turning to
Mr. Homer Hollopeter, and evidently desirous of changing the subject.
"May I ask if the sonnet is your favorite form of verse?"

Mr. Homer bridled and colored.

"A--not at present, sir," he replied, modestly. "For some years I
did feel that my--a--genius, if I may call it so, moved most freely
in the fetters of the sonnet; but of late I have thought it well to
seek--to employ--to--a--avail myself of the various forms in which
the Muse enshrines herself. It--gives, if I may so express myself,
more breadth of wing; more scope; more freedom; more"--he waved his
hands--"circumambiency!"

His hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket.

"I am sure, Cousin Homer," said Miss Vesta, "our friends would be glad
to hear some of your poetry, if you happen to have any with you."

"Very glad," echoed Mr. and Mrs. Bliss, heartily. Doctor Stedman, after
a thoughtful glance at the door, and another at the clock,--but it was
only seven,--settled himself resignedly in his chair and said, "Fire
away, Homer!" quite kindly.

Mr. Homer drew forth a folded paper, and gazed on the company with a
pensive smile.

"I confess," he said, "the thought had occurred to me that, if so
desired, I might read these few lines to the choice circle before
whom--or more properly which--I find myself this evening. An episode has
recently occurred in our--a--midst, Mrs. Bliss, which is of deep
interest to us Elmertonians. The return of a youth, always cherished,
but--shall I say, Cousin Phoebe, a temporary estray from
the--a--star-y-pointing path?"

"It is a graceful way of putting it, Cousin Homer," said Miss Phoebe,
with some austerity. "I trust it may be justified. Proceed, if you
please. We are all attention."

Mr. Homer unfolded his paper, and opened his lips to read; but some
uneasiness seemed to strike him. He moved in his seat, as if missing
something, and glanced round the room. His eye fell and rested on Miss
Phoebe, sitting erect and rigid--in the rocking-chair, _his_
rocking-chair! Miss Phoebe would not have rocked a quarter of an inch
for a fortune; every line of her figure protested against its being
supposed possible that she _could_ rock in company; but there she sat,
and her seat was firm as the enduring hills.

Mr. Homer sighed; pushed his chair back a little, only to find its legs
wholly uncompromising--and read as foll