a of girls.

"And the little book," she went on, apologetically; "I suppose it was
foolish to send it, but something she said made me think of some of the
lines in the poem. I've marked them for her. She reads, doesn't she?"

"A little, I think. I see her now and then read the papers that Pop
brings home with him. I don't fancy her literary range is very wide,
however."

"Of course, I suppose it is ridiculous! And maybe she'll not understand
any of it; but tell her I sent her a message. She must see if she can
find it in the poem. Perhaps you can explain it to her. It's Browning's
'Rabbi Ben Ezra.' You know it, don't you?"

"I'm afraid not. I was intent on other things about the time when I was
supposed to be giving my attention to Browning, or I wouldn't be what I
am to-day, I suppose. But I'll do my best with what wits I have. What's
it about? Couldn't you give me a pointer or two?"

"It's the one beginning:

"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith, 'A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor
be afraid!'"

He looked down at her still with that wondering smile. "Grow old along
with you!" he said, gravely, and then sighed. "You don't look as if you
ever would grow old."

"That's it," she said, eagerly. "That's the whole idea. We don't ever
grow old and get done with it all, we just go on to bigger things, wiser
and better and more beautiful, till we come to understand and be a part
of the whole great plan of God!"

He did not attempt an answer, nor did he smile now, but just looked at
her with that deeply quizzical, grave look as if his soul were turning
over the matter seriously. She held her peace and waited, unable to find
the right word to speak. Then he turned and looked off, an infinite
regret growing in his face.

"That makes living a different thing from the way most people take it,"
he said, at last, and his tone showed that he was considering it deeply.

"Does it?" she said, softly, and looked with him toward the sunset,
still half seeing his quiet profile against the light. At last it came
to her that she must speak. Half fearfully she began: "I've been
thinking about what you said on the ride. You said you didn't make good.
I--wish you would. I--I'm sure you could--"

She looked up wistfully and saw the gentleness come into his face as if
the fountain