Till comin' of the dawn,
You'll find, when once you're on your feet,
Them things that plague--are gone!

"There, ain't that true--every word of it?" she demanded. "An' there
ain't hardly any poem license in it, too. I think they're a ways lots
better when there ain't; but sometimes, of course, you jest have to
use it. There! an' now I've read 'em both to you--an' how much do you
s'pose I can get for 'em--the two of 'em, either singly or doubly?"
Susan was still breathless, still shining-eyed--a strange, exotic
Susan, that Daniel Burton had never seen before. "I've heard that
writers--some writers--get lots of money, Mr. Burton, an' I can write
more--lots more. Why, when I get to goin' they jest come
autocratically--poems do--without any thinkin' at all; an'--But how
much DO you think I ought to get?"

"Get? Good Heavens woman!" Daniel Burton was on his feet now trying to
shake off the conflicting emotions that were all but paralyzing him.
"Why, you can't get anything for those da---" Just in time he pulled
himself up. At that moment, too, he saw Susan's face. He sat down
limply.

"Susan." He cleared his throat and began again. He tried to speak
clearly, judiciously, kindly. "Susan, I'm afraid--that is, I'm not
sure--Oh, hang it all, woman"--he was on his feet now--"send them, if
you want to--but don't blame me for the consequences." And with a
gesture, as of flinging the whole thing far from him, he turned his
back and walked away.

"You mean--you don't think I can get hardly anything for 'em?" An