he open door. He had ridden up unheard, had
dismounted, tying his horse to a tree, and had then stood for several
minutes without being seen by Ruth or David. When he spoke, they thought
that he had just arrived. Ruth went forward to welcome him with the ease
and grace that marked everything she did. Nature had given her a pretty,
gentle dignity, and Philip Alston's cultured example had polished her
manner. She now did all the graceful offices of the hostess, quietly and
simply. She said how sorry she was that neither her uncle nor her cousin
was at home. They wished, she said, to be there when he came, so that
they might try to thank him for his kindness to her. But one or the
other would return very soon; both had hoped to do so before his
arrival.

"It is early for a visit," Paul Colbert said, in a tone of apology; "but
I couldn't come at all to-day, unless I stopped now in passing."

"Oh, no!" said Ruth, quickly. "It isn't very early."

"And then I thought you might like to see this," he said.

Rising, he stepped to her side, and gave her a sheet of paper torn from
his note-book and covered with writing. He did not return to the chair
which he had arisen from, but took another much nearer her own.

"Poetry!" she said. "Is it something that you have written?"

He smiled. "I have merely copied it. I saw the poem for the first time
an hour or so ago at Mr. Audubon's. It is new and has never been
printed. It was written by the young English poet, John Keats, to his
brother George Keats, who is a partner of Mr. Audubon in the mill on the
river. Mr. Keats and his wife are here now, the guests of Mr. Audubon.
The poem came in a letter which has just been received. I have copied a
part of it, and a few words from the letter, also. Mr. George Keats was
kind enough to allow me, and I thought you would like to see them. I
hadn't time to copy the entire poem, though it isn't very long."

"It was very kind," said Ruth. "I am so glad to see it. May I read it
now? This is what the letter says," reading it aloud, so that David also
might hear. "If I had a prayer to make for any great good ... it should
be that one of your children should be the first American poet?"

"The first English hand across the sea!" said Paul Colbert.

Ruth read on from this letter of John Keats to his brother: "I have a
mind to make a prophecy. They say that prophecies work out their own
fulfilment." And then she read as much of "A Prophecy" as the