to his taste; for me,


No silken madam, by your leave,
Though wondrous, wondrous she be,
Can lure this heart--upon my sleeve--
From little pink-print Hebe.


For I found beneath that pretty print such a heart as seldom
beats beneath your satin, warm and wild as a bird's. I used to
put my ear to it sometimes to listen if it beat right. Ah,
reader, it was like putting your ear to the gate of heaven.

And once I made a song for her, which ran like this:--


There grew twin apples high on a bough
Within an orchard fair;
The tree was all of gold, I vow,
And the apples of silver were.

And whoso kisseth those apples high,
Who kisseth once is a king,
Who kisseth twice shall never die,
Who kisseth thrice--oh, were it I!--
May ask for anything.


Hebe blushed, and for answer whispered something too sweet