"Yes, I was your grandfather's friend. And he was a marvellous man, Peter. It's the proudest thing I can say of myself—that I was his friend." Then, quickly, as if she had closed a treasure box, she turned from the subject of her old friendship—which Peter knew might have been more—to that of Sheila.
"What shall I do with my poet, Peter? I'm as much afraid of her as I said I should be—and as unfit to help her."
"Let me help her! Will you let me train her?"
"Oh, my dear, I hoped you'd ask to do it!"
"Then it's a bargain—not only for the present, but for the future—after she graduates—as long as she needs me?"
Mrs. Caldwell flashed a keen glance at him: "As long as you will, Peter! I'll trust her to you gratefully."
But if there was any deeper significance in her words than her acceptance of the present compact, Peter failed to catch it. As he stood in the seminary doorway a few moments later, watching Mrs. Caldwell's retreating figure up the shady street, there came to him, however, a sense of having something to work for at last.
"What was it Mrs. Caldwell once said?" he murmured to himself. "That she wasn't wise enough to 'trim the wick of a star'? Yes, that was it. Well," he added whimsically, "I don't suppose I'm fit for the job either, but I'm going to undertake it. It'll be worth while staying here—it'll be worth while living—if I can trim the wick of a star and help it to shine!"