I might have peeked through the gooseberries and not been discovered, I suppose, but just then I went out shooting flamingoes with a friend of mine, and when I got back, some time that day, the gooseberry-vines were thick with rose-buds. And while I was gone a brook had come--you could hear it plainly on the other side--and I was surprised, I remember, and angry with my aunt Jemima (I never had an Aunt Jemima) for not telling me. I listened awhile to the tinkle-tinkling till presently the burden changed to a

"Tra, la, la, Tra, la, la,"

over and over, till I said to myself, "These are the Singing Waters the poets hear!" So I tiptoed nearer through the crackling leaves, and touching the rose-vines very deftly for fear of thorns, again I listened. My heart beat faster.

"It is an English linn!" I said, astonished, for there were words to it, English words to that singing rivulet! I could make out "gold" and "rue"

and "youth."

"Some woodland secret!" I told myself; so I listened eagerly, scarcely breathing, and little by little, as my ears grew more accustomed to the sounds, I heard the song, not once, but often, each time more clearly than before:

"Many seek a coronet, Many sigh for gold, Some there are a-seeking yet-- (Never thought of you, my pet!) --Now they're pa.s.sing old.

"Many yearn for lovers true, Some for sleep from pain, Seeking laurel, some find rue-- (Oh, they never dreamed of you!) --Now want youth again.

"Crown and treasure, love like wine, Peace and laurel-tree, Have I all, oh! world of mine-- (Soft little world my arms entwine) --Youth thou art to me."

It seemed familiar, yet I could not place the song, till at last it came to me that Dr. Primrose wrote it for his only child, a kind of lullaby which he used to chant to her.

Then I remembered how all that while I had been listening with my eyes shut, and so I opened them to find the singer--and saw Let.i.tia with Robin sleeping in her arms.

IV

HIRAM PTOLEMY

One afternoon in a spring I am thinking of, pa.s.sing from my office to the waiting-room beyond it, I found alone there a little old gentleman seated patiently on the very edge of an old-fashioned sofa which occupied one corner of the room. He rose politely at my entrance, and, standing before me, hat in hand, cleared his throat and managed to articulate:

"Dr. Weatherby, I believe."

I bowed and asked him to be seated, but he continued erect, peering up at me with eyes that watered behind his steel-bowed spectacles. He was an odd, unkempt figure of a man; his scraggly beard barely managed to screen his collar-b.u.t.ton, for he wore no tie; his spa.r.s.e, gray locks fell quite to the greasy collar of his coat, an antique frock, once black but now of a greenish hue; and his inner collar was of celluloid like his d.i.c.key and like the cuffs which rattled about his lean wrists as he shook my hand.

"My name is Percival--Hiram De Lancey Percival," he said. "De Lancey was my mother's name."

"Will you come into my office, Mr. Percival?" I asked.

"No--no, thank you--that is, I am not a patient," he explained. "I just called on my way to--"

He wet his lips, and as he said "New York" I fancied I could detect beneath the casual manner he a.s.sumed, no inconsiderable self-satisfaction, accompanied by a straightening of the bent shoulders, while at the same moment he touched with one finger the tip of his collar and thrust up his chin as if the former were too tight for him.

With that he laid his old felt hat among the magazines on my table and took a chair.

"The fact is," he continued, "I am a former protege of the late Rev.

David Primrose, of whom you may--"

He paused significantly.

"Indeed!" I said. "I knew Dr. Primrose very well. He was a neighbor of ours. His daughter--"

My visitor's face brightened visibly and he hitched his chair nearer to my own.

"I was about to ask you concerning the--the daughter," he said. "Is she--?"

"She lives with my family," I replied. "Let.i.tia--"

"Ah, yes," he said; "Let.i.tia! That is the name--Let.i.tia Primrose--well, well, well, well. Now, that's nice, isn't it? She lives with you, you say."

"Yes," I explained, "she has lived with my family since her father's death."

"He was a remarkable man, sir," Mr. Percival declared. "Yes, sir, he was a remarkable man. Dr. Primrose was a pulpit orator of unusual power, sir--of unusual power. And something of a poet, sir, I believe."

"Yes," I a.s.sented.

"I never read his verse," said the little old gentleman, "but I have heard it said that he was a fine hand at it--a fine hand at it. In fact, I--"

He paused modestly.

"I am something of a writer myself."

"Indeed!" I said.

"Oh yes; oh yes, I--but in a different line, sir, I--"

Again he hesitated, apparently through humility, so that I encouraged him to proceed.

"Yes?" I said.

"I--er--in fact, I--" he continued, shyly.

"Something philosophical," I ventured.

"Yes; oh yes," he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Well, no; not that exactly."

"Scientific then, Mr. Percival."

He beamed upon me.

"Well, now, how did you guess it? How did you guess it?" he exclaimed.

"Oh, I merely took a chance at it," I replied, modestly.

"Well, now, that's remarkable. Say--you seem to be a clever young fellow. Are you--are you interested--in science?" he inquired, sitting forward on the very edge of his chair.

"Well, as a doctor, of course," I began.

"Of course, of course," he interposed, "but did you ever take up ancient matters to any extent?"

"Well, no, I cannot say that I have."