THE LAST RIDE.

In the morning, as Walter was dressing, he received a copy of his poems
which he had taken in sheets to a book-binder to put in morocco for Lady
Lufa. Pleased like a child, he handled it as if he might hurt it. Such a
feeling he had never had before, would never have again. He was an
author! One might think, after the way in which he had treated not a few
books and not a few authors, he could scarcely consider it such a very
fine thing to be an author; but there is always a difference between
thine and mine, treated by the man of this world as essential. The book
was Walter's book and not another's!--no common prose or poetry this,
but the first-born of his deepest feeling! At length it had taken body
and shape! From the unseen it had emerged in red morocco, the color of
his heart, its edges golden with the light of his hopes!

As to the communication of the night, its pain had early vanished. Was
not Sefton a disappointed lover? His honesty, however evident, could not
alter that fact! Least of all could a man himself tell whether disguised
jealousy and lingering hope might not be potently present, while he
believed himself solely influenced by friendly anxiety!

"I will take his advice, however," said Walter to himself, "and put an
end to my anxiety this very day!"

"Do you feel inclined for a gallop, Mr. Colman?" asked Lufa as they sat
at the breakfast-table. "It feels just like a spring morning. The wind
changed in the night. You won't mind a little mud--will you?"

In common phrase, but with a foolish look of adoring gratitude, Walter