oem to her. Her lover has turned out a worthless fellow
and left her--that was him you saw flying past just now, going up the
canyon to sport around with the other hummers--but here is my poem to
_Pajaro Corazon_."

He drew forth his bundle of papers and in a shamefaced way handed one
of them to Lucy. It was a slip of yellow note paper, checked along the
margin with groups of rhyming words and scansion marks, and in the
middle this single verse.

"Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart!
Some knight of honor in those bygone days
Of dreams and gold and quests through desert lands,
Seeing thy blood-red heart flash in the rays
Of setting sun--which lured him far from Spain--
Lifted his face and, reading there a sign
From his dear lady, crossed himself and spake
Then first, the name which still is thine."

Lucy folded the paper and gazed across at him rapturously.

"Oh, Rufus," she cried, "why didn't you send it to me?"

"Is it good?" asked Hardy, forgetting his pose; and when she nodded
solemnly he said:

"There is another verse--look on the other side."

Lucy turned the paper over quickly and read again:

"Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart!
Some Padre, wayworn, stooping towards his grave,
Whom God by devious ways had sent so far,
So far from Spain--still pressing on to save
The souls He loved, now, raising up his eyes
And seeing on thy breast the bleeding heart
Of Jesus, cast his robes aside and spake
Thy name--and set that place apart."

As she followed the lines Hardy watched her face with eyes that grew
strangely soft and gentle. It was Lucy Ware of all the world who
understood him. Others laughed, or pitied, or overdid it, or remained
unmoved, but Lucy with her trusting blue eyes and broad poet's brow--a
brow which always made him think of Mrs. Browning who was a poet
indeed, she always read his heart, in her he could safely trust. And
now, when those dear eyes filled up with tears he could have taken her
hand, yes, he could have kissed her--if he had not been afraid.

"Rufus," she said at last, "you are a poet." And then she dried her
eyes and smiled.

"Let me read some more," she pleaded; but Hardy held the bundle
resolutely away.

"No," he said gently, "it is enough to have pleased you once. You know
poetry is like music; it is an e