She hesitated. His hand was waiting; but she shook her head.
"No. It's the longest poem he ever wrote, Mr. Butters. It's his masterpiece."
"By George! let's see it, then. Let's see it."
"Why, it's as long, Mr. Butters—it's as long as 'Lycidas.'"
"Long as—hm!" he replied. "Still—still, Miss Primrose," he added, cheerfully, "that isn't so long when you come to think of it."
"But that's not all," Letitia said. "It's about—it's called—oh, you'll never print it, Mr. Butters!"
She rose with the poem in her hand.
"Print it!" cried Butters. "Why, of course I'll print it. I'll print it if every cussed poet in Grassy—"
"Oh, will you, Mr. Butters?"
"Will I? Of course I will."