st what is a flame goddess?" interrupted Patty, who wanted to
giggle, but was too polite.

"I see your soul as a flame of fire,--a lambent flame, with tongues of
red and yellow----"

And now Patty did laugh outright. She couldn't help it. "Oh, my soul
hasn't tongues," she protested. "I'm sure it hasn't, Mr. Blaney."

"Yes," he repeated, "tongues, silent, untaught tongues,--but with
unknown, unvoiced melodies that await but the torch of sympathy to
sound, lyrically, upon the waiting air."

"Am I really like that? Do you think I could voice lyrics, myself? I
mean it,--write poetry, you know. I've always wanted to. Do you think
I could, Mr. Blaney?"

"I know it. Unfolding one's soul in song is not an art, as some
suppose, to be learned,--it is a natural, irrepressible expression of
the inner ego, it is a response to the melodic urge----"

"Oh, wait a minute, you're getting beyond me. What do all these things
mean? It's so much Greek to me."

"But you want to learn?"

"Yes; that is, I'm interested in it. I always did think I'd like to
write poetry. But I don't know the rules."

"There are no rules. Unfetter your soul, take a pencil,--the words
will come."

"Really? Can you do that, Mr. Blaney? Could you take a pencil,
_now_,--and just write out your soul, and produce a poem?"

Patty was very much in earnest. Sam Blaney looked at her, the eager
pleading face urged him, the blue eyes dared a refusal, and the
hovering smile seemed to doubt his ability to prove his own proposition.

"Of course I could!" he replied. "With you for inspiration, I could
write a poem that would throb and thrill with the eternal heart of the
radiance of the soul's starshine."

"Then do it," cried Patty; "I believe you, I thoroughly believe you,
but I want to see it. I want the poem for myself. Give it to me."

Slowly Blaney took a pencil and notebook from his pocket. He sat
gazing at her, and Patty, fairly beaming with eager interest, waited.
For some minutes he sat, silent, almost motionless, and she began to
grow restless.

"I don't want to hurry you," she said, at last, "but I mustn't stay
here too long. Please write it now, Mr. Blaney. I'm sure you can do
it,--why delay?"

"Yes, I can do it," he said, "but I want to get the highest, the
divinest inspiration, in order to produce a gem worthy of your
acceptance."

"Well, don't wait longer for that. Give me your second best, if need
be,--only write somet