He picked up Janet's book which she had laid on the grass. "What a dear old optimist Emerson was," he said. Then, as he opened the book, his eyes fell on the leaf upon which Janet had scribbled:
"It is the holy Sabbath day;
I must not work, I must not play;
I'm but a little wriggling worm,
Whose only duty 'tis to squirm."
Janet flushed up. "That wasn't meant for the public to see," she said.
"I beg your pardon," said the young man between confusion and amusement. "I should have asked your consent. What inspired the effusion?" He laughed and Janet saw that he appreciated her mood.
"THAT WASN'T MEANT FOR THE PUBLIC TO SEE," SHE SAID.
"It wasn't a what; it was a who," she answered. "Do you happen to know Charity Shepherd? She is the most painfully conscientious person I ever saw. I believe she will die of doing her 'dooty.' I met her on my way here, and she gave me a lecture upon the woefulness of wasting one's Sabbath privileges, and upon the uncertainty of human existence, so I wrote that charming bit of verse you have just read. I think of dedicating it to Charity."
"I cannot say that I remember Miss Charity, but I know her type."
"Do you find it interesting?" Janet smiled mischievously.
"I cannot say that I do."