Lyric after lyric, with Lufa for its inspiration, he wrought, like
damask flowers, into his poem. Every evening, and all the evening,
sometimes late into the morning, he fashioned and filed, until at length
it was finished.

When the toiling girl who waited on him appeared with the proof-sheets
in her hand, she came like a winged ministrant laying a wondrous gift
before him. And in truth, poor as he came to think it, was it not a gift
greater than any angel could have brought him? Was not the seed of it
sown in his being by Him that loved him before he was? These were the
poor first flowers, come to make way for better--themselves a gift none
but God could give.

The book was rapidly approaching its birth, as the day of Lufa's summons
drew near. He had inscribed the volume to her, not by name, but in a
dedication she could not but understand and no other would; founded on
her promise of a last ride: it was so delightful to have a secret with
her! He hoped to the last to take a copy with him, but was disappointed
by some _contretemps_ connected with the binding--about which he was as
particular as if it had been itself a poem: he had to pack his
portmanteau without it.

Continuously almost, on his way to the station, he kept repeating to
himself: "Is it to be the last ride, or only another?"




CHAPTER XVIII.