We waved good-bye to each other till the turnings of the road made parting final, and then, sitting down by the roadside, I opened the letter.

It proved to be not a letter, but a poem, which he had evidently written after I had left him for bed.

It was entitled, with twenty's love for a tag of Latin, Ad Puellam Auream, and it ran thus:-- The Golden Girl in every place Hides and reveals her lovely face; Her neither skill nor strength may find-- 'T is only loving moves her mind.
If but a pretty face you seek, You'll find one any day or week; But if you look with deeper eyes, And seek her lovely, pure, and wise, Then must you wear the pilgrim's shoon For many a weary, wandering moon.
Only the pure in heart may see That lily of all purity, Only in clean unsullied thought The image of her face is caught, And only he her love may hold Who buys her with the spirit's gold.
Thus only shall you find your pearl, O seeker of the Golden Girl! She trod but now the grassy way, A vision of eternal May.
The devil take his impudence! "Only the pure in heart," "clean, unsullied thought." How like the cheek of twenty! And all the same how true! Dear lad, how true! Certainly, the child is father to the man.

Dirige nos! O sage of the Golden Twenties! As I meditatively folded up the pretty bit of writing, I made a resolution; but it was one of such importance that not only is another chapter needed to do it honour, but it may well inaugurate another book of this strange uneventful history..