"No, Jane," he answered quietly. "You are not to go. I don't suppose
you will understand, but my dreams have all gone--and the vision has
come. And I need you, Jane."
"Then you forgive me?" she said tremulously. "I did not know ..."
"There is nothing to forgive, Jane. I did not know, either."
Jane broke down and the professor rose and put his arms around her,
awkwardly, and kissed her. He had not kissed her in years. They sat
down together before the hearth and gazed into the blackened ashes. He
held her hand in his. Finally she spoke. She almost understood--
"Shall we have apple dumplings for supper, professor? The kind you
used to like?" She was smiling now.
"No, Jane," he said gravely, "we'll have peach preserves."
_Literary Monthly_, 1909.
THE GOOD GREY POET
SONNET
EDWIN PARTRIDGE LEHMAN '10
All men must feel the beauty of a star
That rides in the illimitable space
Of heav'n; the beauty of an Helen's face;
Or of a woodland water, glimpsed afar,
Where haze-empurpled meadows, undefined
And slumbrous, intervene; of quiet, cool,
Sequester'd glades, where in the level pool
The long green rushes dip before the wind.
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