"Mr. . I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. His heart beat wildly and he was afraid lest the strain be too much; but the girl shook her head and smiled and pointed to the top of the mountain. And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening. She fixed her brilliant eyes upon him. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters.
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