"'Not wholly bad, Lysander Pratt?'" quoted Gerald, interrogatively.
"Oh, Gerald! it is almost too perfect! no, you needn't stop, I only said almost. The water feels like silk flowing by me: no, silk is rough beside it; it feels like—like—"
"Like water, possibly?" said Gerald; "stranger things have been."
"Well, there isn't anything else like it, is there? Oh! are you sure you will not take cold or anything, Gerald? I could go on forever, floating here—trolling, I mean."
"Nothing easier," said Gerald, pulling on with long, steady strokes. "We will just keep on; I ask nothing better. Years passed. A form was seen, gray and bent with age, feebly tugging at a pair of oars. Trailing behind the crazy boat, another figure might be distinguished—I forbear further description, Margaret: I may grow old, but not you; please stay as you are always. Anyhow, the people will flock to the shore. Ha! the Muse! the afflatus descends.
"The people thronged the rocky shore,
And viewed that graybeard old and hoar;
'Oh! why thus dodderest at the oar,
Unhappy soul?'
The answer came: 'Forever more
She wished to troll!'"
"Gerald, I think we'd better go back now."
"Wait! she hasn't finished. Never interrupt a Muse! it isn't the thing to do.
"And still along that rocky coast,
A gibbering yet a gallant ghost,
He dodders, dodders at his post,
Nor nears the goal;
For she, the spook he cares for most,
Still loves to troll."
"Gerald, take me back, please! see, we are ever so far from shore, and it is time for me to go in, I am sure."