done about her epic—she would know what that meant.
Father Cassidy did not speak all at once. The prolonged suspense was terrible to Emily. She was afraid he could not praise and did not want to hurt her feelings by dispraise. All at once her “Evening Dreams” seemed trash and she wondered how she could ever have been silly enough to repeat it to Father Cassidy.
Of course, it was trash. Father Cassidy knew that well enough. All the same, for a child like this—and rhyme and rhythm were flawless—and there was one line—just one line—“the light of faintly golden stars”—for the sake of that line Father Cassidy suddenly said,
“Keep on,—keep on writing poetry.”
“You mean?”—Emily was breathless.
“I mean you’ll be able to do something by and by. Something—I don’t know how much—but keep on—keep on.”
Emily was so happy she wanted to cry. It was the first word of commendation she had ever received except from her father—and a father might have too high an opinion of one. This was different. To the end of her struggle for recognition Emily never forgot Father Cassidy’s “Keep on” and the tone in which he said it.
“Aunt Elizabeth scolds me for writing poetry,” she said wistfully. “She says people will think I’m as simple as Cousin Jimmy.”
“The path of genius never did run smooth. But have another piece av cake—do, just to show there’s something human about you.”
“Ve, merry ti. O del re dolman cosey aman ri sen ritter. That means, ‘No, thank you. I must be going home before it gets dark.’”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“Oh, no, no. It’s very kind of you”—the English language was quite good enough for Emily now. “But I’d rather walk. It’s—it’s—such good exercise.”
“Meaning,” said Father Cassidy with a twinkle in his
