"No, they don't," said John. "In fact--well, I am glad my opinion of my poetry isn't governed by theirs."

Phyllis stole a quick look at his face; but the chin was uplifted, confident as ever.

"Is the boys' club making progress?" she asked.

"Splendid! But I want to talk about you and me."

"You and me----" three little words. The subtle spring air wafted odors of Arcady.

For a few moments they walked on silently John was preparing his sentences, and he could never be hurried at that.

Phyllis knew what was coming; she knew, she knew! Ah! the rapture of it, the loveliness of it all! the poignant beauty of the still unspoken words. Phyllis was willing to wait; he had nothing to tell her she didn't know; but she wanted to hear it said, and remember each word to dream over afterward.

Slowly they walked, in the mean little street, past dark pa.s.sages, leading into tenements; past knots of lounging men; little mothers with heavy babies struggling in their thin arms; rowdies with vacuous eyes; and girls flaunting cheap finery.

"May I call you Phyllis?" asked John, breaking the silence suddenly.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MAY I CALL YOU PHYLLIS?]

"Why, yes; if you wish--and if you think you ought, you know."

"Well, then,--Phyllis. Your name has become to me the one name worth saying in the world. Ever since I met you for the first time, four months ago, I have been saying it, Phyllis; but I wanted to say it to you. So with your face: I know every mood of you by the lights and shadows of it. I can see it in your absence, almost as well as when I am with you. Your dear, sweet face, Phyllis, and your crown of gold, and your loyal eyes, I know by heart, as well as your name. Dear Phyllis.

And I know, too, your quick and beautiful mind; its clear, wise judgment of the true and the false. I know its freedom from selfishness, and all littleness. I know its purity and its steadfastness I know your capable hands, Phyllis, and your eager, pitying heart,--for I have seen them at work day after day, and week after week. I love you, my dearest, and I must tell you so. I think I have loved you longer than I have known you, but I know I have loved you as long. Perhaps you can care for me, and perhaps you can't. Sometimes I have dared to hope you might, but almost always I have known it was too high a hope. For I am only a poor poet, with nothing but faith in myself and love for you to offer. I know you have everything; a beautiful home, and beautiful clothes, and beautiful jewels, probably, though I haven't seen them. Every wish of yours is answered almost before you know it is yours. Life's promise to you is the earth and the fullness thereof; and I offer you only love.

But in the end I shall win, Phyllis, I am perfectly certain of that. I shall never, never be rich; possibly never even well-to-do; but I love you, Phyllis; I love you. I want to ask you to wait for me--and be my wife."

With a pretty impulse she took one of his hands and raised it to her lips.

People were pa.s.sing almost constantly. They were forced to separate, to pa.s.s a group of children, playing noisily on the pavement.

"I know I should have spoken to your uncle, first," he said, "but I knew he would say no, unless--unless you asked him, too."

"Ah! but I am so glad you told me to-day," said Phyllis. "I am so glad, so glad! Of all the days in the year I should have chosen to-day. You don't know why, do you? Because to-day is the fourteenth of February,--Saint Valentine's Day."

In a rush of words she told him of her mother's name, and of her mother, and of her valentines.

"You haven't told me you love me yet," said John.

"Can't you hear my heart singing it?" asked Phyllis.

"But I want to hear you say the words," he urged.

"I love you, John," said Phyllis softly.

"And you will promise to marry me--some day?" he asked.

"Yes--some day," she repeated shyly.

"And you are not afraid of the future?"

"Not a bit," said Phyllis. She smiled up at him. "You must take me home, now, and we will tell Uncle Peter."

They rode home on the top of a motor-bus. He tucked her hand into his greatcoat pocket, and held it there. Their mood was exalted. The streets were glorified; the gloomy buildings had become wonderful castles; their fellow-pa.s.sengers were surrounded with the mystery of romance.

It grew colder rapidly; at the terminus they clambered down stiffly.

Twilight had fallen when they reached the great gates of the park. John stopped and laid a detaining hand on Phyllis's arm. They kissed for the first time. Moment of ecstasy!

It is doubtful if they would ever have got past the park gates except for the warning whistle of a hurrying messenger boy, on a bicycle.

"My eye! What a smack!" he yelled, as he shot past. John glared, but Phyllis laughed happily.

He would have lingered as they walked down the long street to the house; but Phyllis had no doubt of the outcome; Sir Peter's frown was without terrors for her, but to John--how formidable. His footsteps lagged as they climbed the wide steps to the door.

"Sir Peter was called out of town by a telegram," said Burbage, in the hall. "He said he would be home by a late train. Thompson's to meet the twelve-thirty."

John clutched at this reprieve.

"I have a cla.s.s at Saint Ruth's at seven," he said. "I must hurry away, Miss Oglebay." Burbage was helping Phyllis with her furs.

It was arranged he should call early the following morning. They exchanged significant looks, and he was gone. A ring, set with old-fashioned garnets, was left in the hand he had pressed; one of his mother's rings, worn on his watch-chain. Phyllis seized Burbage and danced her up and down the hall and back again, demoralizing the rugs.

Then, having picked up her m.u.f.f and thrown it at her, Phyllis raced up the stairs.

IV

Sir Peter was gruff at the breakfast table. The hurriedly written telegram, or his hasty reading of it, had led him a wild-goose chase. To find your host concealing surprise as he shakes hands, and to learn, at the end of ten minutes of feverish cordiality, that you were invited to dine the following night, is never comfortable, even at the home of an old friend. When two hours on a train each way are involved, and loss of one's sleep as well----! A bleak east wind, this morning, too, and Sir Peter was Jarndyced as to that quarter.

Worst of all, Phyllis looked like her mother, with her hair over her ears, like that; the likeness always irritated Sir Peter, but this morning it was particularly striking.

He accepted her morning endearments graciously, but Phyllis was glad the toast wasn't cold. She recognized unpropitious portents.

John was shown into the library at ten, sharp; his chin had come to his rescue. He gave Phyllis a bright look, and led up to the business in hand promptly.

Sir Peter, savoring his cigar, "The Times" spread over his knees, invited the young man to be seated; the young man preferred to stand, and did, very straight, his back to the fireplace. His eyes were large and serious his color high; his hands were behind him and the nervous fingers couldn't be seen. Phyllis viewed her champion with approving eyes, and sat on the edge of her chair.

"I am afraid my errand won't be an agreeable one to you, sir," John began. "I am sure it wouldn't be to me if--if I were you. But I must tell you my story from the beginning, if you are willing. You knew my father and something of my family. The people of his parish were tremendously fond of him. He gave them all of himself. He died poor, of course, and left me a good name and two hundred pounds a year. The countryside came to his funeral. The faces of the men were streaked with tears, as they stood by his grave, and women wept openly. I had letters of sympathy from every county in England, from Canada, and from far-away India. His spirit was as gentle as a child's; but he welded men and women to him as with bonds of steel. Yet he had never tried a cause, nor built a bridge, nor saved a life as a physician, nor laid one down as a soldier. He hasn't even left a sermon in print, for he never wrote one."

John hesitated. Sir Peter rustled "The Times" uneasily. Phyllis sat perfectly still, waiting.

"My father taught me more than I learned at Magdalene, and he gave me my ideals. Perhaps they are unusual, but I believe they are true. They may be told in a few words,--to face life fearlessly, live it cleanly and fully, and use it to what end one's conscience and one's talents direct without too much regard for the careless opinion of the world. I haven't anything behind me that I am ashamed of. I am far from being ashamed of my profession though I admit it has seemed to require defense rather often since I came to London. My father encouraged me to adopt it when I suggested the idea to him. I will tell you what he said to me. It was this: 'All work is fine. Of course, I think labor in the Church of G.o.d is the finest. But every profession offers opportunities for useful service; and trade is honorable to honorable men. But, John,' said he, 'one imperishable poem is worth more to mankind than all the gold and silver stored in the stronghold of the Bank of England. You may never write one, but a lifetime devoted to trying will not be wasted.' That was what my father said, sir."

"That would be like him as I recall him," said Sir Peter shortly. He had no inkling yet of John's errand. He was disposed to be generous to this quixotic young man for his father's sake.

Phyllis wondered how any one could look at John or hear him speak, and not love him; but she had momentary pangs of foreboding; a vague presentiment of impending unhappiness.

"I settled his few affairs,--he did not owe a penny,--and I came to London. There had been some correspondence between Dr. Thorpe and my father, and I called at Saint Ruth's. I thought I saw a chance of touching a larger life and of doing a little good; I have given some of my afternoons and all of my evenings there ever since. Dr. Thorpe is a brick, as you know, sir; he and his wife have been very kind to me. I was rather lonely at first, and--all that. My mornings I devote to my profession. I think I have made some progress, if only in finding the wrong ways of putting words together." John smiled. "There are a great many wrong ways and I am finding them all, one by one."