dren."

"I deserve the rebuke, Mrs. Caldwell. But if Sheila wants me to see
her poems, why hasn't she brought them to me herself?"

"Too shy! Peter, poets are _very_ sensitive. It's an awful thing to
have one in your family!"

"Oh, you won't find it so bad."

"Yes, I shall. I always told you it would happen. And I always told
you, too, that I couldn't cope with such a--calamity."

"Well, there's still hope that this may be a case of 'sweet sixteen'
instead of genius. I'll take a peep and give you a verdict."

"She's a _poet_," insisted Mrs. Caldwell, obstinately convinced of the
worst. And she fixed her eyes on Peter's face, as he read, with an
eagerness that, save for her lamentations, might have seemed anxiety to
have her opinion confirmed.

Presently Peter chuckled.

"What are you laughing at, Peter?"

"Have you read the 'Ode to the Evening Star'?"

"Yes, I've read them all."

"Well, then----"

"Well, then--_what_?"

"You know why I'm laughing."

"You think it's _funny_?" And there was an unmistakable note of
indignation in the question.

"Of course I think it's funny! Don't you?"

There was no reply, and Peter looked up from the note-book. "_Don't_
you think it's funny?" he repeated. And then he stared at her. Her
cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes were glittering with angry
tears. "Why, I thought--" he began.

But she interrupted him: "I certainly don't think it's funny. I think
it's a _lovely_ poem! I think they're _all_ lovely poems! I expected
you to appreciate them, but as you don't--" And she put out a
peremptory hand for the book. But as Peter continued to stare at her,
she perceived his amusement, and her resentment gave way to mirth.

"Oh, Peter, do forgive me for being cross to you, but you see----"

"I see that you're proud of these poems!" he exclaimed, his own eyes
twinkling merrily.

"Yes," she admitted, "I am proud of them. I really do think they're
the loveliest poems ever written!" And she met his laughing gaze quite
shamelessly.

"And you're glad--yes, _glad_--that she's turned out a poet!" he
accused.

"Yes," confessed Mrs. Caldwell again, "I'm glad!" And she leaned
earnestly toward him: "_Oh, Peter, isn't she wonderful_?"

But Peter regarded her severely. "Ah, the deceit of woman! And I
believed you when you claimed to be distressed! I sympathized with
you!"

But Mrs. Caldwell was not to be abashed: "I've been a shocking
hypocrite,