“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:
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 expression of thoughts which are more than thoughts. They come up out of the great sea of our inner soul like the breath of flowers from a hidden garden, like the sound of breakers from the ocean cliffs; but not every one can scent their fragrance, and some ears are too dull to hear music in the rush of waters. And 239 when one has caught the music of another’s song then it is best to stop before––before some discord comes. Lucy,” he began, as his soul within him rose up and clamored for it knew not what, “Lucy––”
He paused, and the woman hung upon his lips to catch the words.