about it, and all their groaning and pining for inspiration was
nothing in the world but a need of some music; I was reading the
'Palace of Art' only the other day, and there was that 'lordly
pleasure house' with all its modern improvements, and without a
sound of music. Of course the poor soul had to go back to the
suffering world, if it were only to hear a hand-organ again."

"That is certainly a novel theory," admitted the young poet. "I
shall come to you when I need inspiration."

"Come and bring me your songs," added the girl, "and I will sing
them to you. You can write me a poem about that brook, for one
thing. I was thinking just as I came down the road that if I were a
poet I should have beautiful things to say to that brook. Will you
do it for me?"

"I have already tried to write one," said the young man,
hesitatingly.

"A song?" asked Helen.

"Yes."

"Oh, good! And I shall make some music for it; will you tell it to
me?"

"When?"

"Now, if you can remember it," said Helen. "Can you?"