"Crown and treasure, love like wine,
Peace and laurel-tree,
Have I all, oh! world of mine—
(Soft little world my arms entwine)
—Youth thou art to me."
It seemed familiar, yet I could not place the song, till at last it came to me that Dr. Primrose wrote it for his only child, a kind of lullaby which he used to chant to her.
Then I remembered how all that while I had been listening with my eyes shut, and so I opened them to find the singer—and saw Letitia with Robin sleeping in her arms.
IV
HIRAM PTOLEMY
O
ne afternoon in a spring I am thinking of, passing from my office to the waiting-room beyond it, I found alone there a little old gentleman seated patiently on the very edge of an old-fashioned sofa which occupied one corner of the room. He rose politely at my entrance, and, standing before me, hat in hand, cleared his throat and managed to articulate:
"Dr. Weatherby, I believe."