Gwen made no reply, but we heard no more of her resignation.  She applied herself at once to the preparation of her paper upon “Antony and Cleopatra.”  Maitland, who, like all vigorous, healthy, and informed intellects, was an ardent admirer of Shakespeare, found time to call on Gwen and to discuss the play with her.  This seemed to please her very much, and I am sure his interest in the play was abnormal.  He confessed to me that every morning, as he awoke, the first thing which flashed into his mind, even before he had full possession of his senses, was these words of Antony: 

“I am dying, Egypt, dying.”

He professed himself utterly unable to account for this, and asked me what I thought was the cause of it.  He furthermore suddenly decided that he would ask Gwen to propose his name for membership at the next meeting of the Young People’s Club.  I hastily indorsed this resolution, for I had a vague sort of feeling that it would please Gwen.

The “Antony and Cleopatra” night at length arrived.  We all attended the meeting and listened to a very able paper upon the play.  One of the most marked traits of Gwen’s character is that whatever she does she does thoroughly, and this was fully exemplified on the night in question.  Maitland was very much impressed by some verse Gwen had written for the occasion, and a copy of which he succeeded in procuring from her.  I think, from certain remarks he made, that it was the broad and somewhat unfeminine charity expressed in the verse which most astonished and attracted him, but of this, after what I have said, you will, when you have perused it, be as good a judge as I: 

Cleopatra

     In Egypt, where the lotus sips the waters
     Of ever-fruitful Nile, and the huge Sphinx
     In awful silence,—­mystic converse with
     The stars,—­doth see the pale moon hang her crescent on
     The pyramid’s sharp peak,—­e’en there, well in
     The straits of Time’s perspective,
     Went out, by Caesarean gusts from Rome,
     The low-burned candle of the Ptolemies: 
     Went out without a flicker in full glare
     Of noon-day glory.  When her flame lacked oil
     Too proud was Egypt’s queen to be
     The snuff of Roman spirits; so she said,
     “Good-night,” and closed the book of life half read
     And little understood; perchance misread
     The greater part,—­yet, who shall say?  Are we
     An ermined bench to call her culprit failings up
     And make them plead for mercy?  Or can we,
     Upon whom soon shall fall the awful shadow of
     The Judgment Seat, stand in her light and throw
     Ourselves that shadow?  Rather let fall upon
     Her memory the softening gauze of Time,
     As mantle of a charity which else
     We might not serve.  She was a woman,
     And as a woman loved!  What though the fierce
     Simoom blew ever hot