and on his way to the dining-room, dropped it into the post-box in the
hall.

During lunch he was rather silent and abstracted; the package was not
gone, and his conscience might yet command him to recall it! When the
hour was passed, and the paper beyond recovery, he felt easier, saying
to himself, what was done could not be undone; he would be more careful
another time. One comfort was, that at least he had done no injustice to
Lufa! He did not reflect that he had done her the greatest injustice in
helping her to believe that worthy which was not worthy, herself
worshipful who was not worshipful. He told her that he finished her
drama before going to bed, and was perfectly charmed with it. That it as
much exceeded his expectations then as it had fallen below them since,
he did not say.

In the evening he was not so bright as before. Lufa saw it and was
troubled. She feared he doubted the success of her poem. She led the
way, and found he avoided talking about it. She feared he was not so
well pleased with it as he had said. Walter asked if he might not read
from it in the drawing-room. She would not consent.

"None there are of our sort!" she said. "They think literature
foolishness. Even my mother, the best of mothers, doesn't care about
poetry, can not tell one measure from another. Come and read a page or
two of it in the summer-house in the wilderness instead. I want to know
how it will sound in people's ears."

Walter was ready enough. He was fond of reading aloud, and believed he
could so read the poem that he need not say anything. And certainly, if
justice meant making the words express more than was in them, he did it