IV.
Madge and her poet did not meet again for several days. Meanwhile, she posted his letter "for luck." He also left a roll of MS. at her door with "Paul Vespan's compliments." She read the poems in her leisure moments, which were few; for she now went daily to the red house in the avenue. The cosy corner made splendid progress, and the twins were more than ever enchanted with their upholsteress.
With a rebel thought of the poet thrusting itself between the lines, Madge read the verses to a finish; and then seized a regretful opportunity to return them.
She gave them back to him reverently.
"They are all very beautiful," she said: "I wonder no one listens; but I am sure they will some day."
Dear critic! If she were all he had to fear!
"I am glad you like them," he said.
"Is there any news yet of the other?" she asked.
"Not yet."
But Madge was to hear it first.
The next afternoon when she was at the avenue, a red-faced old gentleman with white hair put his head in at the door of the work-room, and then beat a hasty retreat.
"Come in, papa," chorused the twins; "it's only Miss Barberry."
"I'll look in presently. I only came to tell you I've found a poet."
"Papa! Not really! Where is he?"
"HE RUMMAGED AMONGST THE CONTENTS."
"Marigold Place, Harrow Road, of all localities in the world."
"Why, that's where Mrs. Xerxes lives!" said one of the sisters, and then she looked at Madge.
"They're a very promising set of verses," went on the editor, impressively, "but I don't know that I can find room for them."
"Oh, please, please, don't send them back, sir! It will kill him."
"Eh? What? Who's this?" exclaimed the editor, looking severely over his glasses at Madge, and from her to his daughters. "Do you know this Paul Vespan, young woman?"
"Yes, sir. He lives in the house where I lodge. And he's starving, sir. He is, indeed. He has sent his work everywhere, and can't get it accepted. I posted that poem for him. I hoped it would bring him good luck."
"HE'S STARVING!"
"And so it shall!" cried the editor. "You send this young man to me. What does he do in his spare time?"
"He's a sandwich-man, sir," faltered Madge; "and I think, if you don't mind," she added, "perhaps it would be better for you to write to him. He's had so many disappointments, that he'll hardly believe his luck."
"Very good," agreed the editor, "I'll write."
So Paul received his first cheque by the morning's post, "With the Editor's compliments, and thanks for the contribution entitled 'Love's Handicraft,'" and a request that he would call at the office.