now; it's lovely; but some of the words, I'm afraid, you'll have just to spell and leave."
"But you make out a good deal of it, no doubt."
"Oh yes, and I love the poetry in it. Would you like me to say some of it?
"When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
"Why, it's not funny poetry, at all! What are you laughing for?" she inquired of the old gentleman's shaking shoulders, for he had turned his head away.
"It's not the poetry—it's—There are certain elements of incongruity," said the old gentleman, taking refuge in polysyllables. "The poetry is lovely. You might let us have it again."
"Oh dear, and they told me not to stay out late, and it is late—there is the postman." She felt in her pocket for the treasure.
"Not to-day," the old gentleman interrupted her. "I've come into a fortune."
"And you never told me about it!" Plainly, she was disappointed.
"It's such a little while since I've had it—such a dear little fortune. It's made over all my ideas of folks. It's made me happy."
The Lady Bountiful looked puzzled. "You must take good care of it," she counselled him.
"And not let it get the measles." He smiled down on her tenderly. "If it were only mine."
"But you said it was," and there was distinct disappointment in her voice.
"And so you can't give away any pennies, then?"
"Yes, yes, I can give away pennies." He laughed, boyishly. "It will seem a bit awkward at first—"
"After taking them so long, you mean—"
He laughed merrily. "We must keep it out of the papers; they'd think old Uncle Dan'l had lost his mind."
"I must really run away now; the cook will be so cross. And can you come out to play on Friday? My papa's coming for me on Saturday, and I'm going back home."
He tightened the clasp of her hand and turned away his head. "You bet I'll come Friday, and we'll make a day of it."
The Moor's Key
ON the edge of an ancient city,
In the midst of the wide red sand,
Clutched by a dying beggar,
Stolen from his dead hand,
Sold for a coin of copper,
Bought for a coin of gold,
It lies on my desk recording
A romance centuries old.
For the beggar was heir to princes
Whose palaces rose in Spain—
Arabesqued arches springing,
Fountains of music singing,
Spraying the courts of marble,
Only the keys remain,
Hundreds of crumbling years since then
Only the keys remain,
And one was clutched by the beggar
Who starved on the wide red plain.
