And the carriage rolled away.
CHAPTER XI.
It was late before Uncle Henry and Arthur set out for home and late when the little judge went to his room. They had all three sat for a good while in Frank's study, talking of past and present times.
"We shall be very gay," said Frank, "when Aunt Rosa's niece comes. You will not be so much alone then, Gertrude, when I am away in the fields."
"I am never lonely," she replied, quietly. "I have never had a girl-friend, and now it seems superfluous to me." And she looked at him with her grave deep eyes.
"Madam," inquired the judge, putting the end of his cigar in a meerschaum mouthpiece, "has he written poetry to you too?" And he pointed to Frank with a sly laugh.
Gertrude flushed.
"Of course," she replied.
"Ah, he can't help writing verses," said the little man, teasingly, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
"I tell you, Mrs. Linden, sometimes it seizes upon him like a perfect fever; and the things that a fellow like that finds to write about! Poets really are born liars. At the moment when the sweet verses flow out on the paper, they actually believe every word they write--it is really touching!"