"And will you write my poems?" Anne had asked eagerly. But he had drawn down a broad leaf between his face and hers. "I told you that I was a poet no longer--merely a lover. To know absolute happiness in two forms in this world you must take them in turn. I shall write no more."

"Were you perfectly happy when you wrote?" asked Anne, a little jealously.

"Perfectly."

"I can almost understand it."

"I can no more express it than I have ever been able to tell in verse the half of what I blindly conceived."

"I should think that might have clouded your happiness."

"Yes--when a poem was revolving and seething in my distracted head. Never tempt me to write, for while the thing is gestating I am a brute, moody, irritable, unhappy. The whole poem seems to work itself out remorselessly before I can put pen to paper, and at the same time is enveloped in a mist. I catch glimpses like will-o'-the-wisps in a fog bank, sudden visions of perfect form that seem to turn to grinning masks. It is maddening! But when the great moment arrives and I am at my desk I am the happiest man on earth."

By tacit consent the subject of the stimulants under which he had always written was ignored, as well as the terrible chapter of his life which it was her blessed fortune to close. They had discussed the future, talked of practical things. He had told her that his house could be put in order while they travelled among the islands, and that he made quite enough to support her properly if they lived on Nevis. She had three hundred a year and would have more did she consent to let the manor for a longer term, and he had assured her that hers was a fortune on Nevis outside of Bath House. They finally decided to marry at once that he might show her the other islands before the hurricane season began.

In spite of loitering Anne arrived at the hotel quite two hours before luncheon, and after divesting herself of a frock that would send Mrs. Nunn into hysterics if her news did not, she went to her aunt's room.

Mrs. Nunn, fresh from her sulphur bath, was reclining on a sofa in her large cool room, where the jalousies were half closed, and dawdling over Godey's Lady's Book, a fashion magazine printed in the United States, which found great favour in her eyes.

"My dear Anne," she said languidly, "I suppose you breakfasted with Miss Ogilvy. La! La! You are more burnt than ever. Your face is quite red. And I would have you well bleached before the London season. Pray sit down. It affects my nerves to see you wander about like that."




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