“What ’s the good?  But only last night, so it happens, I had a sort of a wild feeling to get something out of myself, and I scribbled for hours and hours and found a little morsel of a rhyme.”

“Will ’e read it to me?”

He showed reluctance, but presently dragged a scrap of paper out of his, pocket.  Not a small source of trouble was his sweetheart’s criticism of his verses.

“It was the common sight of a pair of lovers walking tongue-tied, you know.  I call it ‘A Devon Courting.’”

He read the trifle slowly, with that grand, rolling sea-beat of an accent that Elizabeth once loved to hear on the lips of Raleigh and Drake.

  “Birds gived awver singin’,
   Flittermice was wingin’,
   Mists lay on the meadows—­
     A purty sight to see. 
   Down-long in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy,
     Down-long in the dimpsy
   Theer went a maid wi’ me.

  “Five gude mile o’ walkin’,
   Not wan word o’ talkin’,
   Then I axed a question
     And put the same to she. 
   Up-long in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light,
     Up-long in the owl-light,
   Theer corned my maid wi’ me.

“But I wonder you write the common words, Clem—­you who be so much tu clever to use ’em.”

“The words are well enough.  They were not common once.”

“Well, you knaw best.  Could ’e sell such a li’l auld funny thing as that for money?”

He shook his head.

“No; it was only the toil of making it seemed good.  It is worthless.”

“An’ to think how long it took ’e!  If you’d awnly put the time into big-fashioned verses full of the high words you’ve got.  But you knaw best.  Did ’e hear anything of them rhymes ’bout the auld days you sent to Lunnon?”

“They sent them back again.  I told you ’t was wasting three stamps.  It ’s not for me, I know it.  The world is full of dumb singers.  Maybe I haven’t got even a pinch of the fire that must break through and show its flame, no matter what mountains the earth tumbles on it.  God knows I burn hot enough sometimes with great thoughts and wild longings for love and for sweeter life and for you; but my fires—­whether they are soul-fires or body-fires—­only burn my heart out.”

She sighed and squeezed his hand, understanding little enough of what he said.

“We must be patient.  ‘T is a solid thing, patience.  I’m puttin’ by pence; but it ‘s so plaguy little a gal can earn, best o’ times and with the best will.”

“If I could only write the things I think!  But they vanish before pen and paper and the need of words, as the mists of the night vanish before the hard, searching sun.  I am ignorant of how to use words; and those in the world who might help me will never know of me.  As for those around about, they reckon me three parts fool, with just a little gift of re-writing names over their dirty shop-fronts.”