He ran his hand over his hair again.
Emma Hartroff got up from her seat and, thrusting her hands into her pockets, she straddled before him, gazing at him.
His eyes were staring blankly into space.
She tittered:
“Well, I’m blowed!” said she—“Modern Poetry seems to be all rhymes and neckties.”
The poet burst into tears.
******
For a month the boy Noll lay seriously ill; but at last his young body began to gain vigour, and strength slowly to come back to him.