“Then she:  O shaper of the marvellous phrase
     That openeth woman’s heart as Both a key,
     I dare not hear thee—­lest the bolt should slide
     That locks another’s heart within my own. 
     Go, leave me,—­and she let her eyelids fall,
     And the great tears rolled from her large blue eyes.

     “Then I:  If thou not hear me, I shall die,
     Yea, in my desperate mood may lift my hand
     And do myself a hurt no leach can mend;
     For poets ever were of dark resolve,
     And swift stern deed

     “That maiden heard no more,
     But spike:  Alas! my heart is very weak,
     And but for—­Stay!  And if some dreadful morn,
     After great search and shouting thorough the wold,
     We found thee missing,—­strangled,—­drowned i’ the mere,
     Then should I go distraught and be clean mad!

     “O poet, read! read all thy wondrous scrolls. 
     Yea, read the verse that maketh glad to hear! 
     Then I began and read two sweet, brief hours,
     And she forgot all love save only mine!”

“Is all this from real life?” asked the publisher.

“It—­no, sir—­not exactly from real life—­that is, the leading female person is not wholly fictitious—­and the incident is one which might have happened.  Shall I read you the poems referred to in the one you have just heard, sir?”

“Allow me, one moment.  Two hours’ reading, I think, you said.  I fear I shall hardly be able to spare quite time to hear them all.  Let me ask what you intend doing with these productions, Mr.—–­rr Poplins.”

“Hopkins, if you please, sir, not Poplins,” said Gifted, plaintively.  He expressed his willingness to dispose of the copyright, to publish on shares, or perhaps to receive a certain percentage on the profits.

“Suppose we take a glass of wine together, Mr.—­Hopkins, before we talk business,” the publisher said, opening a little cupboard and taking therefrom a decanter and two glasses.  He saw the young man was looking nervous.  He waited a few minutes, until the wine had comforted his epigastrium, and diffused its gentle glow through his unspoiled and consequently susceptible organisation.

“Come with me,” he said.

Gifted followed him into a dingy apartment in the attic, where one sat at a great table heaped and piled with manuscripts.  By him was a huge basket, ha’f full of manuscripts also.  As they entered he dropped another manuscript into the basket and looked up.

“Tell me,” said Gifted, “what are these papers, and who is he that looks upon them and drops them into the basket?”

“These are the manuscript poems that we receive, and the one sitting at the table is commonly spoken of among us as ‘The Butcher’.  The poems he drops into the basket are those rejected as of no account”

“But does he not read the poems before he rejects them?”