that had dried up the well of creation in her. Could it be that the same
power was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this
talented boy? Rack her brains as she might, she could not definitely
formulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes.

"Ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? Do
you realise that I must leave you in half an hour?"

She looked at him with deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent a
soft radiance to her large child-like eyes.

Ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. In that moment he loved her
passionately.

"Foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper:
"You may kiss me before you go."

His lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her hands
and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss.

Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been kissed like this
before.

"Poet though you are," Ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned to
kiss."

She was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for
the watch in his vest-pocket. She suddenly released him, and said, a
little hurt: "No, you must not miss your train. Go by all means."