It would be hardly fair to Susan Posey to describe with what delight and innocent enthusiasm she welcomed back Gifted Hopkins.  She had been so lonely since he was away?  She had read such of his poems as she possessed—­duplicates of his printed ones, or autographs which he had kindly written out for her—­over and over again, not without the sweet tribute of feminine sensibility, which is the most precious of all testimonials to a poet’s power over the heart.  True, her love belonged to another,—­but then she was so used to Gifted!  She did so love to hear him read his poems,—­and Clement had never written that “little bit of a poem to Susie,” which she had asked him for so long ago!  She received him therefore with open arms,—­not literally, of course, which would have been a breach of duty and propriety, but in a figurative sense, which it is hoped no reader will interpret to her discredit.

The young poet was in need of consolation.  It is true that he had seen many remarkable sights during his visit to the city; that he had got “smarted up,” as his mother called it, a good deal; that he had been to Mrs. Clymer Ketchum’s party, where he had looked upon life in all its splendors; and that he brought back many interesting experiences, which would serve to enliven his conversation for a long time.  But he had failed in the great enterprise he had undertaken.  He was forced to confess to his revered parent, and his esteemed friend Susan Posey, that his genius, which was freely acknowledged, was not thought to be quite ripe as yet.  He told the young lady some particulars of his visit to the publisher, how he had listened with great interest to one of his poems, “The Triumph of Song,”—­how he had treated him with marked and flattering attention; but that he advised him not to risk anything prematurely, giving him the hope that by and by he would be admitted into that series of illustrious authors which it was the publisher’s privilege to present to the reading public.  In short, he was advised not to print.  That was the net total of the matter, and it was a pang to the susceptible heart of the poet.  He had hoped to have come home enriched by the sale of his copyright, and with the prospect of seeing his name before long on the back of a handsome volume.

Gifted’s mother did all in her power to console him in his disappointment.  There was plenty of jealous people always that wanted to keep young folks from rising in the world.  Never mind, she did n’t believe but what Gifted could make jest as good verses as any of them that they kept such a talk about.  She had a fear that he might pine away in consequence of the mental excitement he had gone through, and solicited his appetite with her choicest appliances,—­of which he partook in a measure which showed that there was no immediate cause of alarm.