WHEN PIPPA PASSED
girl's eyes, so intense was the vision of the moist, green-breathing earth, the torn fleece of the clouds, the broken chirping of frightened birds, the softened, yellow light that reassures and saddens at once. His art was not Wordsworth's nor Shelley's; it was as if Keats had turned from human passion and consecrated the beauty of his verse to the beauty of Nature—but simply, sadly, and through a veil of Heine's tears.
Delafield nodded mutely to his niece, then walked over to the boy.
"There will be plenty of people to tell you later," he said, holding out his hand, "but let me be the first. You are a genius, Mr. West, and your country will be proud of your work some day. There is no American to-day writing such poetry."
West took his hand awkwardly, not rising from his chair. He fingered his manuscript nervously.
"I—I wouldn't want to be laughed at," he demurred. "Other folks mightn't be so kind as you. If anybody laughed—I—it would just about kill me!" he concluded, passionately. They smiled sympathetically at each other.
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