He never said the word. He just loved her, and waited. She grew desperate.
She startled him by instituting a quarrel, which was not very much of a
quarrel, for it takes two, I have always understood, to make one--in all
senses of the word. He did not quite understand, and told her so. She wept
in his presence, and forbade him the house. She made her father threaten
his life, which was now almost a burden. He still did not understand; so
he did--from her standpoint the worst thing possible--nothing. While she
was impatiently waiting at home for a reconciliation and a proposal--which
never came--he was dumbfounded with grief, and employed his time,
tearfully of course, selecting all of her favorite poems--for she was fond
of a certain kind of poetry. Then it was that the idea of "Poets and
Poetry of the South" came upon him. The popularity of the book was assured
in advance, because he selected only those poems that he thought would
please Florence Barlowe--and her taste was average--so is the taste, I am
told, of the general public.

About a year after their rupture his compilation volume appeared, and was
an instantaneous success. The approach of Christmas made him painfully
realize their estrangement. Finally he awakened to a full knowledge of the
situation. A slow anger started up within him and gradually swept over him
like a tidal wave.

It was Christmas eve.

He lighted his lamp--his quarters were still poor and very cheerless. He
unlocked a drawer which contained his few treasures, and there they
were--the seven gifts entire from the fair hand of pretty Florence
Barlowe. There was also a little packet of letters, notes, and invitations
from the same hand.