Though you drown in my love as a bird in the sea.
Irene looked up just as the music stopped. She smiled, and Dale’s eyes smiled back at her.
“Her hair is like the sun,” he said dreamily and half to himself.
“Yes,” Judy replied. “And her dress and slippers are golden. You’d almost think the song was written for her. It must have been written for someone very much like her, and whoever wrote it loved that someone dearly.”
“What was the poet’s name?” Dale asked.
Judy thought a minute. “It was Sarah Glynn—or Glenn. I don’t quite remember. I used to think the song was written by a man until Miss Grimshaw showed me the original manuscript. It’s one of the missing poems, you know.”
“And you didn’t find out a thing about it?”
“Yes, one thing.”
Dale’s face glowed with interest. “You did? What?”
“That Emily Grimshaw believes Irene’s name is Joy Holiday. I can’t convince her otherwise. And she is sure Joy Holiday took the poems. You know it’s ridiculous. Irene isn’t anybody but herself and wouldn’t have any use in the world for the faded old poetry. Besides, she said she didn’t take them, and I believe her.”