eral other things which
very likely she would not have called by their right names, though she
felt their presence: her other contributions had belonged rather to the
poetry of comment. She was sure, almost sure, that they had accepted
these.

Unsophisticated Lucyet never dreamed of enclosing postage for return, so
she could only breathlessly search the printed page to discover whether
her lines were there or in the waste-basket. Friday's edition of the
"Daily Morning Chronicle" was more or less given over to the feeble
claims of general literature. To-day was Friday. Lucyet glanced through
her little window--the tastefully disposed corner of which was
dedicated to the postal service--at the tin of animal crackers, the jar
of prunes, the suspended bacon, and the box of Spanish licorice, and
pondered, half contemptuously, half pitifully, on what had been her life
before she had written poems and sent them to the "Daily Morning
Chronicle." Then her outlook had seemed scarcely wider than that of the
animal crackers with their counterfeit vitality; now it seemed extended
to the horizon of all humanity.

There was the sound of horses' feet coming over the hill. Was it the
mail wagon? No, it was a heavier vehicle; and the voice of the farmer,
slow and lumbering as the animals it encouraged, sounded down the
village street. Over the crest of the hill appeared the summit of a load
of hay going to the scales in front of the tavern to be weighed. So
silent were the place and the hour, that it was like a commotion when
the cart drew up, and the horses were unhitched and weighed, and then
the load driven on, and the owner and the hotel-keeper exchanged
observations of a genial nature. Finally the horses and the wagon
creaked along the hot street down the road which led by the pillared
white house, and again the village was at peace. Lucyet glanced at the
clock. Was the mail going to be late this morning? No. The creaking of
the hay wagon had but just lost itself in the silence, when her quick
ear caught the rattle of the lighter carriage. Her first impulse was to
step to the door and wait for it there, but she did not yield to it; she
would do just as usual, neither more nor less. She would not for worlds
have Truman Hanks suspect any special interest on her part. He might try
to find out its cause; and a hot blush enveloped Lucyet as she
contemplated the possibility of his assigning it to the true one. Only
one person in all the