glades she stepped, pipes and tabret luring, with
life and self at once in tune.

And then Margaret told her something, "if she would never, never
tell"--Margaret wrote things herself.

It was about this time that Rosalie was moved to seek Emily, as of old,
to relate a Romantic Situation. She warned her that it would be sad, but
Emily did not mind that. She loved sad things these days, and even found
an exultation in them if they were very, very sad.

Rosalie took her aside to tell it: "There was a bride, ready, even to
her veil, and he, the bridegroom, never came--he was dead."

Rosalie called this a Romantic Situation. Emily admitted it, feeling,
however, that it was more, though she could not tell Rosalie that.
It--it was like the poetry in the book, only poetry would not have left
it there!

"O mither, mither mak my bed
O mak it saft and narrow;
Since my love died for me to-day,
Ise die for him to-morrowe."

"It's about a teacher right here in the High School," Rosalie went on to
tell.

Then it was true. "Which one?" asked Emily.

But that Rosalie did not know.

It was like poetry. But then life was all turning to poetry now. One
climbed the stairs to the mansard now with winged feet, for Rhetoric is
concerned with metaphor and simile, and Rhetoric treats of rhyme. There
is a sudden meaning in Learning since it leads to a desired end.

Poetry is everywhere around. The prose light of common day is breaking
into prismatic rays. Into the dusty highway of Ancient History all at
once sweeps the pageantry of Mythology. Philemon bends above old Baucis
at the High School gate, though hitherto they have been sycamores.
Olympus is just beyond the clouds. The Elysian Fields lie only the
surrender of the will away, if one but droops, with absent eye, head
propped on hand, and dreams----

But Emily, all at once, is conscious that Miss Beaton's eyes are on her,
at which she moves suddenly and looks up. But this mild-eyed teacher
with the sweet, strong smile is but gazing absently down on her the
while she talks.

Emily likes Miss Beaton, the teacher of History. Her skirts trail softly
and her hair is ruddy where it is not brown; she forgets, and when she
rises her handkerchief is always fluttering to the floor. Emily loves to
be the one to jump and pick it up. Miss Beaton's handkerchiefs are fine
and faintly sweet and softly crumpled, and Emily loves the smile when
Miss Beaton's absent gaze comes