“Yes, Mr. Warren, there is something about you which pleases me, and therefore I am about to confer upon you a most precious gift—to bestow upon you my—ah, can’t you guess what it is?” smiling archly.
“O, my dear sir,” said Harry, seizing his hand, “if I might dare to hope!”
“Yes, Mr. Warren, I am about to give you my—poem!”
“Your poem!”
“My poem.”
“Your poem!”
“Yes, my poem—that is, the reputation of the thing.”
Harry started up and paced the room as if pursued by all the furies.
“Ah, I thought I should surprise you,” cried Mr. Lillie. “Come, sit down again. I said I would make your fortune, and I will. Now this poem, Mr. Warren, you shall have the honor of delivering before the Lyceum as your own—think of that—as your own production.”
Poor Harry was struck aghast. “But, my dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I can never consent to such a gross imposition!”