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“It’s called ‘Daisy’—this poem,” she said.
Six feet out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—
O the breath of the distant surf!”
She stopped, and looked down at him. He was stretched out beside her on the fern, his old hat half tilted down on his face, his clear brown eyes gazing out over the beach, white in the hot sun—over the tumbling waves, to the empty blue plain of the sea.
“That’s not bad,” he admitted. “Go on. Let’s hear what it’s all about.”
Ann went on. She read well, and the beauty of what she read was very real to her:
A still word—strings of sand!
And yet they made my wild, wild heart
Fly down to her little hand.”
There was a movement beside her, and she stopped again. He was looking up at her with a little frown. Something strange and intent was in his eyes. Then he turned towards the sea again.
“Is that enough?”
“No, go on to the end.”
Ann read on until she finished the poem, and then she closed the book.
“Well,” she asked mockingly, “do you pass him as a poet as well as a man?”
“You’ve told me my opinion isn’t worth anything,” he answered; “but that stuff isn’t too bad.”
Ann laughed, and he got up.