And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. "You can render no further service to your poor mother. Will you take it in to him?” The young man smiled in a superior manner. I certainly didn’t mean to kiss you. “Look here, daddy,” she said, in a tone of great reasonableness, “I MUST go to that dance, you know. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake.
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