“A little of one,” said Melinda, modestly.
“I hope you will favor us by reading something of your own.”
“Indeed, Mr. Howard,” said Melinda, with affected bashfulness, “I should be afraid to submit my careless productions to gentlemen of such literary taste. I did indeed throw off a few rhymes to-day, but----”
“We shall be glad to hear them, Miss Jones. Perhaps, after you have read them, my friend, Mr. Howard, will read something.”
“Oh, that will be delightful! In that case I cannot refuse. Ichabod, will you bring me that portfolio from the desk?”
Her brother, whom Melinda was in the habit of ordering around, complied with his sister’s request.
Melinda drew out a sheet of note paper and unfolded it.
“I hope, Mr. Howard, you will not be severe upon my verses. They were written this afternoon, in a fit of inspiration. You will see that they reveal my too susceptible soul. I am subject to fits----”
“Why, Melinda,” broke in her brother, “you never told me you had fits?”
“To fits of lonely contemplation,” continued Melinda, looking severely at her brother, “and it was in one of these that I penned the following stanzas.”