He turned a moment to the title-page. “Ezekiel and Other Poems,” he read. “By B. M.”
“B. M.,” he mused, “Whom have I heard writes under those initials? Ah! I remember! Mrs. Miller.—Barbara Miller.”
He ran the gilt-edged leaves rapidly through his practised fingers, his quick eye catching enough of the running pages to satisfy him. Suddenly he paused in his search. His eye had lit upon what he sought, and he began to read:
“COMING.”
“At even, or at midnight, or at the cock-crowing, or in the morning.”
“It may be in the evening,
When the work of the day is done,
And you have time to sit in the twilight
And watch the sinking sun,
While the long, bright day dies slowly