Bowing in her proudest temple,
Beggared Art, we humbly own!"
As Florence ceased she refolded the paper and placed it in her pocket.
"You did not read the author's name," said her father.
"There was no name attached to them," answered she. "Nothing, only some initials which were rather indistinct."
"Some modest bard," remarked the major, as they retraced their steps to the carriage, "who, as Byron says,
'Like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own.'
This poet sings of bridges, but does not sign his name to his songs."
Florence was silent during their drive to the hotel. Niagara seemed suddenly to have lost its interest for her, and after a few more days they departed, with young Williams and his lovable little sister in their company.