the subject was seldom alluded to
by either. Yet in that period White Violet had sent two other
contributions, and on each occasion Mr. Hamlin had insisted upon
increasing the honorarium to the amount of his former gift. In vain the
editor pointed out the danger of this form of munificence; Mr. Hamlin
retorted by saying that if he refused he would appeal to the proprietor,
who certainly would not object to taking the credit of this liberality.
"As to the risks," concluded Jack, sententiously, "I'll take them; and
as far as you're concerned, you certainly get the worth of your money."

Indeed, if popularity was an indiction, this had become suddenly true.
For the poetess's third contribution, without changing its strong
local color and individuality, had been an unexpected outburst of human
passion--a love-song, that touched those to whom the subtler meditative
graces of the poetess had been unknown. Many people had listened to this
impassioned but despairing cry from some remote and charmed solitude,
who had never read poetry before, who translated it into their own
limited vocabulary and more limited experience, and were inexpressibly
affected to find that they, too, understood it; it was caught up and
echoed by the feverish, adventurous, and unsatisfied life that filled
that day and time. Even the editor was surprised and frightened. Like
most cultivated men, he distrusted popularity: like all men who believe
in their own individual judgment, he doubted collective wisdom. Yet
now that his protegee had been accepted by others, he questioned that
judgment and became her critic. It struck him that her sudden outburst
was strained; it seemed to him that in this mere contortion of passion
the sibyl's robe had become rudely disarranged. He spoke to Hamlin, and
even approached the tabooed subject.

"Did you see anything that suggested this sort of business in--in--that
woman--I mean in--your pilgrimage, Jack?"

"No," responded Jack, gravely. "But it's easy to see she's got hold
of some hay-footed fellow up there in the mountains with straws in his
hair, and is playing him for all he's worth. You won't get much more
poetry out of her, I reckon."

Is was not long after this conversation that one afternoon, when the
editor was alone, Mr. James Bowers entered the editorial room with much
of the hesitation and irresolution of his previous visit. As the editor
had not only forgotten him, but even, dissociated him with the poet