imed Aunt William. "Do you know Eliza Cook? I think
'The Old Armchair' one of the loveliest poems in the language."

"Never heard of it."

"Savile," said Aunt William, when they were sitting by the fire in the
drawing-room, "I'm glad you're fond of poetry. Have you ever written any
at all? You needn't be ashamed of it, my dear boy, if you have. I
admire sentiment, but only up to a certain point, of course."

"Well, it's odd you should say that. I wrote something yesterday. I say,
you won't go and give it away, Aunt William?"

"Most certainly not!"

She grew animated.

"Show it to me, if you have it with you. A taste for literature is in
the family. Once a second cousin of ours--you never knew him--wrote me a
sonnet!"

"Did he, though? Well, I dare say it was all right. Here's my stuff. I
rather thought I'd consult you. I want to send it to some one."

Concealing his nervousness under a stern, even harsh demeanour, Savile
took out a folded sheet of paper from a brown pigskin letter-case.

Aunt William clasped her hands and leaned forward.

Savile read aloud in an aggressive, matter-of-fact manner the following
words:----

"My singing bird, my singing bird,
Oh sing, oh sing, oh sing, oh sing to me,
Nothing like it has ever been heard,"

(Here he dropped the letter-case, and picked it up, blushing at the
contents that had fallen out.)

"And I do love to hear thee sing."

His aunt looked a little faint. She leant back and fanned herself,
taking out her smelling-salts.

"That's not all," said Savile. Warming to his work, he went on more
gruffly:--

"What should I do if you should stop?
Oh wilt thou sing for me alone?
For I will fly to hear your notes:
Your tune would melt a heart of stone."

"My gracious, my dear, it's a poem!" said Aunt William.

"Who said it wasn't? But you can't judge till you've heard the whole
thing."

She turned away her head and struggled with a smile, while he read the
last verse defiantly and quickly, growing rather red:--

"I haven't got a stony heart
Or whatever it is, it belongs to you:
I vow myself thy slave,
And always I shall e'er be true!"

There was an embarrassed pause.

"Well, I really think that last line is rather pretty," said Aunt
William, who had regained her self-control. "But do you think it is
quite--"

"Is it all right to send to Her?" he said. "That's the point!"

"Well, I can hardly say. Would your f