"And even her name--unknown!"

This evidently was a thought that continued to occupy him, for he walked
up and down the room, frowning; but suddenly his brow cleared and his
eye lit with purpose. Seating himself at a small writing-table by
the window, he proceeded to express his personality--though with
considerable labor--in something which he did not doubt to be a poem.

Three-quarters of an hour having sufficed for its completion, including
"rewriting and polish," he solemnly signed it, and then read it several
times in a state of hushed astonishment. He had never dreamed that he
could do anything like this.

MILADY
I do not know her name
Though it would be the same
Where roses bloom at twilight
And the lark takes his flight
It would be the same anywhere
Where music sounds in air
I was never introduced to the lady
So I could not call her Lass or Sadie
So I will call her Milady
By the sands of the sea
She always will be
Just M'lady to me.
--WILLIAM SYLVANUS BAXTER, Esq., July 14

It is impossible to say how many times he might have read the poem over,
always with increasing amazement at his new-found powers, had he not