"But you leave out the poems," said Dorothea. "I think they are wanted

to complete the poet. I understand what you mean about knowledge

passing into feeling, for that seems to be just what I experience. But

I am sure I could never produce a poem."

"You _are_ a poem--and that is to be the best part of a poet--what

makes up the poet's consciousness in his best moods," said Will,

showing such originality as we all share with the morning and the

spring-time and other endless renewals.

"I am very glad to hear it," said Dorothea, laughing out her words in a

bird-like modulation, and looking at Will with playful gratitude in her

eyes. "What very kind things you say to me!"

"I wish I could ever do anything that would be what you call kind--that

I could ever be of the slightest service to you I fear I shall never

have the opportunity." Will spoke with fervor.

"Oh yes," said Dorothea, cordially. "It will come; and I shall

remember how well you wish me. I quite hoped that we should be friends

when I first saw you--because of your relationship to Mr. Casaubon."

There was a certain liquid brightness in her eyes, and Will was

conscious that his own were obeying a law of nature and filling too.

The allusion to Mr. Casaubon would have spoiled all if anything at that

moment could have spoiled the subduing power, the sweet dignity, of her

noble unsuspicious inexperience.

"And there is one thing even now that you can do," said Dorothea,

rising and walking a little way under the strength of a recurring

impulse. "Promise me that you will not again, to any one, speak of

that subject--I mean about Mr. Casaubon's writings--I mean in that

kind of way. It was I who led to it. It was my fault. But promise

me."

She had returned from her brief pacing and stood opposite Will, looking

gravely at him.

"Certainly, I will promise you," said Will, reddening however. If he

never said a cutting word about Mr. Casaubon again and left off

receiving favors from him, it would clearly be permissible to hate him

the more. The poet must know how to hate, says Goethe; and Will was at

least ready with that accomplishment. He said that he must go now

without waiting for Mr. Casaubon, whom he would come to take leave of

at the last moment. Dorothea gave him her hand, and they exchanged a

simple "Good-by."

But going out of the porte cochere he met Mr. Casaubon, and that

gentleman, expressing the best wishes for his cousin, politely waived

the pleasure of any further leave-taking on the morrow, which would be

sufficiently crowded with the preparations for departure.




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