“I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.”
“Poor child!” I said to myself—“poor child!”
“Who do you think is here, Niece Martha?” said Aunt Diana one morning a week later. “Eugenio; he came last night.”
“What, the poet?”
“Yes; he will stay several days, and I can introduce him to all of you,” said Aunt Di, graciously.
“I shall be very glad, not only on my own account, but on Sara’s also, aunt.”
“Oh, Eugenio will not feel any interest in a person like Miss St. John, Niece Martha! He belongs to another literary world entirely.”
“I know that; but may not Sara attain to that other world in time? I hope much from her.”
“Then you will be disappointed, Niece Martha. I am not literary myself, but I have always noticed that those writers whose friends are always ‘hoping much’ never amount to much; it is the writer who takes his friends and the world by surprise who has the genius.”