only rhymed before, now that I've come back they're me."
Mr. Bons laid the Keats down. The case was more interesting than he had expected. "You?" he exclaimed. "This sonnet, you?"
"Yes—and look further on: 'Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light, and precipices show untrodden green.' It is so, sir. All these things are true."
"I never doubted it," said Mr. Bons, with closed eyes.
"You—then you believe me? You believe in the omnibus and the driver and the storm and that return ticket I got for nothing and———"
"Tut, tut! No more of your yarns, my boy. I meant that I never doubted the essential truth of Poetry. Some day, when you have read more, you will understand what I mean."
"But Mr. Bons, it is so. There is light upon the shores of darkness. I have seen it coming. Light and a wind."
"Nonsense," said Mr. Bons.
"If I had stopped! They tempted me. They told me to give up my ticket—for you cannot come back if you lose your ticket. They called from the river for it, and indeed I was tempted, for I have never been so happy as among those
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