“Now, I’ll go—­on my solemn word, I’ll go—­if you grumble any more!  Essterday you was so different, and said you’d fallen in love with Miss Spring, and pretended to speak to her and make me jealous.  You didn’t do that, but you made me laugh.  An’ you promised a purty verse for me.  Did ’e make it up after all?  I lay not.”

“Yes, I did.  I wasted two or three hours over it last night.”

“Might ‘e get ten shillings for it, like t’ other?”

“It’s not worth the paper it’s on, unless you like it.  Your praise is better than money to me.  Nobody wants any thoughts of mine.  Why should they?”

“Not when they ‘m all sour an’ poor, same as now; but essterday you spoke like to a picture-book.  Theer’s many might have took gude from what you said then.”

He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and flung it into her lap.

“I call it ‘Spring Rain,’” he said.  “Yesterday the world was grey, and I was happy; to-day the world is all gold, and I’m finding life harder and heavier than usual.  Read it out slowly to me.  It was meant to be read to the song of the river, and never a prettier voice read a rhyme than yours.”

Chris smoothed the paper and recited her lover’s lyrics.  They had some shadow of music in them and echoed Clem’s love of beautiful things; but they lacked inspiration or much skill.

“’Neath unnumbered crystal arrows—­
Crystal arrows from the quiver
Of a cloud—­the waters shiver
In the woodland’s dim domain;
And the whispering of the rain
Tinkles sweet on silver Teign—­
Tinkles on the river.

“Through unnumbered sweet recesses—­
Sweet recesses soft in lining
Of green moss with ivy twining—­
Daffodils, a sparkling train,
Twinkle through the whispering rain,
Twinkle bright by silver Teign,
With a starry shining.

“’Mid unnumbered little leaf-buds—­
Little leaf-buds surely bringing
Spring once more—­song birds are winging;
And their mellow notes again
Throb across the whispering rain,
Till the banks of silver Teign
Echo with their singing.”

Chris, having read, made customary cheerful comment according to her limitations.

“’T is just like essterday—­butivul grawing weather, but ’pears to me it’s plain facts more ’n poetry.  Anybody could come to the streamside and see it all for themselves.”

“Many are far away, pent in bricks and mortar, yearning deep to see the dance of the Spring, and chained out of sight of it.  This might bring one glimpse to them.”

“An’ so it might, if you sold it for a bit of money.  Then it could be printed out for ’em like t’other was.”

“You don’t understand—­you won’t understand—­even you.”

“I caan’t please ’e to-day.  I likes the li’l verses ever so.  You do make such things seem butivul to my ear—­an’ so true as a photograph.”

Clem shivered and stretched his hand for the paper.  Then, in a moment, he had torn it into twenty pieces and sent the fragments afloat.