The puckers began to show about the disapproving mouth, under the contagion of the other's merriment. "Wasn't it perfectly ridiculous? But he did play beautifully, and it was so very nice of him to come my first night here. Do you suppose that was Mr. Herndon?"
Naida shook her head doubtfully. "He looked taller, but I could n't really tell. He 's gone now, and the water is turned off."
They lit the lamp once more, discussing the scene just witnessed, while Miss Spencer, standing before the narrow mirror, prepared her hair for the night. Suddenly some object struck the lowered window shade and dropped upon the floor. Naida picked it up.
"A letter," she announced, "for Miss Phoebe Spencer."
"For me? What can it be? Why, Naida, it is poetry! Listen:
Sweetest flower from off the Eastern hills,
So lily-like and fair;
Your very presence stirs and thrills
Our buoyant Western air;
The plains grow lovelier in their span,
The skies above more blue,
While the heart of Nature and of man
Beats quick response for you.
"Oh, isn't that simply beautiful? And it is signed 'Willie'—why, that must be Mr. McNeil."
"I reckon he copied it out of some book," said Naida.
"Oh, I know he didn't. It possesses such a touch of originality. And his eyes, Naida! They have that deep poetical glow!"
The light was finally extinguished; the silvery moonlight streamed across the foot of the bed, and the regular breathing of the girls evidenced slumber.