Witch was going to make a little money till
breakfast time. Not a great deal, but with
the butcher so urgent about his bill, and
Bella in tears over a shabby bonnet, nothing
was too small to be despised. Drawing
was the one accomplishment which this
child possessed. Each of her sisters could
make a noise on the old piano if required,
but Witch had never learned a note of
music. Give her, however, that old tin
colour-box, a sunbeam, a patch of yellow
moss, a red-breast swaying on a tangle of
wild-briers, a purple cave hollowed among
the leaves, and I warrant you she would
make you a little picture which would set
you longing for a taste of the fresh air.
This lucky power she owed to nobody
living.  A forgotten ancestor had willed it
to her, and the capital of talent having
accumulated through lying untouched
during many generations, had swelled
wonderfully by the time it was delivered
over to Witch. It came amongst her
fingers quite naturally at the waving of a
tiny wand which is used to be called a
pencil. It had supplied her childhood with
fantastic joys, and now it helped to satisfy
her girlhood's healthy appetite for bread-
and-butter, besides gilding her early hours
with such a sheen of delight as cast a
reflection over all the after-drudgery of the
day. For Witch was accustomed to receive
sundry pieces of silver counted out
of the till of an important shop in the
city, in exchange for so many inches of
summer morning mounted on white board.
Inches which brought a greater number
of guineas to the shopkeeper's pocket than
he was pleased to give of shillings to little
Witch.

When Witch had gained her favourite
spot in the wood, some one started out of
the leaves to meet her. " Good morning!
good morning!" rang two eager voices,
answering one another joyously, and the
leaves flapped, and also seemed to clasp
hands, and the birds to twitter echoes of
the greeting. Witch's friend was a slender
youth, rather starved-looking, with a sweet
pinched face, and large sad eyes. He looked
as if his spirit had quite outgrown his body,
just as his body had outgrown his clothing.
His sleeves were short and his shoes were
old and large, and the soul of a poet was
looking out of his wan, boyish face.

"I thought you would never come," he
said, as they sat down each on a mossy
stone, and looked at one another, shading
the sun from their eyes with their hands.
"I have been here since the first light."

"Ah, but you had no grates to polish,
and no fires to kindle," said Witch, as she
unpacked her box, and began to flourish
her brushes.

"No, but I worked very late last night
to finish this," he said, shaking out some
flashing folds of silk into the sunshine.
"See, it is to tie over your head while you
paint."

"What a gorgeous little kerchief!" cried
Witch. " It is the work of a poet-weaver
indeed! It is as good as a little poem!"
she said, turning it on this side and that in
the sun. The pattern was a wonderful
arabesque of the most soft and brilliant
colours interwoven with gold. " Oh dear!
oh dear!  these bright silks cost money.
Where did you get it, Barry?"

"I saved it," said the lad.

"And went without your dinner, and
your breakfast, and your sleep! Oh, you
foolish boy!" And Witch began to cry.

"Don't, Witch!" said Barry. "It was
good for me. I am not hungry, indeed, and
it was as you say, as good as a poem to
me—at least it is part of one—I mean I
made one out of it. See here, all the
colours were ideas to me. This purple
was mournfulness, this crimson was love,
these gold threads were little rays of joy
darting backward and forward through my
fancy with my shuttle. The little song is
about you. Shall I show it to you?"

The poem was read. Any one who would
care to see it will find it in the volume of
Weaver's Songs, afterwards published by
Barry, and received into favour by the world.

"It is beautiful, beautiful!" cried Witch,
with the tears flashing from her eyes into
her lap, " and all the more wonderful
because pure imagination. The Witch of your
poem is not this hum-drum little person.
But it will delight the world all the same."

"No, no," said Barry, eagerly, " it is the
poetry that is mean. I have things in my
heart which I cannot put into words. I
ache with them tossing about at night. I
dream of them sitting at my loom all day.
I see things in nature, in life, in you, which
I strive to grasp that I may sing of them
over the earth. They float, float away from
my touch. The words that I put upon my
thoughts are like foolish masks. One can
hardly see any eyes of meaning shining
through them. Sometimes I think that if
I had been born to the speaking of some
other tongue, I should have been able to
utter myself."

The lad flung himself against a tree, with
a great glow of sadness in his eyes.

"You deceive yourself," said Witch,
vehemently. " You have too much work and