how she might pinch and contrive. Old Lady Lloyd worried quite
absurdly over this, and it haunted her like a spectre until
the next Sewing Circle day.

It met at Mrs. Moore's and Mrs. Moore was especially gracious
to Old Lady Lloyd, and insisted on her taking the wicker
rocker in the parlour. The Old Lady would rather have been in
the sitting-room with the young girls, but she submitted for
courtesy's sake--and she had her reward. Her chair was just
behind the parlour door, and presently Janet Moore and Sylvia
Gray came and sat on the stairs in the hall outside, where a
cool breeze blew in through the maples before the front door.

They were talking of their favourite poets. Janet, it
appeared, adored Byron and Scott. Sylvia leaned to Tennyson
and Browning.

"Do you know," said Sylvia softly, "my father was a poet? He
published a little volume of verse once; and, Janet, I've
never seen a copy of it, and oh, how I would love to! It was
published when he was at college--just a small, private
edition to give his friends. He never published any more--poor
father! I think life disappointed him. But I have such a
longing to see that little book of his verse. I haven't a
scrap of his writings. If I had it would seem as if I
possessed something of him--of his heart, his soul, his inner
life. He would be something more than a mere name to me."

"Didn't he have a copy of his own--didn't your mother have
one?" asked Janet.