hing. I've always wanted to see a real, true poet
write a real true poem. I never had a chance before. Now, don't dare
disappoint me!"

Patty looked very sweet and coaxing, and her voice was earnestly
pleading, not at all implying doubt of his ability or willingness.

Still Blaney sat, thoughtfully regarding her.

"Come, come," she said, after another wait, "I shall begin to think you
can't be inspired by my presence, after all! If you are, genius ought
to burn by this time. If not, I suppose we'll have to give it up,--but
it will disappoint me horribly."

The blue eyes were full of reproach, and Patty began to draw her scarf
round her shoulders and seemed about to rise.

"No, no," protested Blaney, putting out a hand to detain her, "a
moment,--just a moment,--stay, I have it!"

He began to scribble rapidly, and, fascinated, Patty watched him.
Occasionally he glanced at her, but it was with a faraway look in his
eyes, and an exalted expression on his face.

He wrote fast, but not steadily, now and then pausing, as if waiting
for the right word, and then doing two or three lines without
hesitation. Finally, he drew a long sigh, and the poem seemed to be
finished.

"It is done," he said, "not worthy of your acceptance, but made for
you. Shall I read it to you?"

"Yes, do," and Patty was thrilled by the fervour in his tones.

In the soft, low voice that was one of his greatest charms, Blaney read
these lines:

"I loved her.--Why? I never knew.--Perhaps
Because her face was fair; perhaps because
Her eyes were blue and wore a weary air;--
Perhaps . . . perhaps because her limpid face
Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein
The dimples found no place to anchor and
Abide; perhaps because her tresses beat
A froth of gold about her throat, and poured
In splendour to the feet that ever seemed
Afloat. Perhaps because of that wild way
Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety;
Or--who will say?--perhaps the way she wept."

The lovely voice ceased, and its musical vibrations seemed to hover in
the air after the sound was stilled.

"It's beautiful," Patty said, at last, in an awed tone; "I had no idea
you could write like that! Why, it's real poetry."

"You're real poetry," said Blaney, simply, as he put the written paper
in his pocket.

"No, no," cried Patty, "give it to me. It's mine. You made it for me
and it's mine. Nobody ever made a real poem for me before. I want it