It was published when he was at college -- just a small , private edition to give his friends . He never published any more -- poor father ! I think life disappointed him . But I have such a longing to see that little book of his verse . I have n't a scrap of his writings . If I had it would seem as if I possessed something of him -- of his heart , his soul , his inner life . He would be something more than a mere name to me . '' `` Did n't he have a copy of his own -- did n't your mother have one ? '' asked Janet . `` Mother had n't . She died when I was born , you know , but Aunty says there was no copy of father 's poems among mother 's books . Mother did n't care for poetry , Aunty says -- Aunty does n't either . Father went to Europe after mother died , and he died there the next year . Nothing that he had with him was ever sent home to us . He had sold most of his books before he went , but he gave a few of his favourite ones to Aunty to keep for me . HIS book was n't among them . I do n't suppose I shall ever find a copy , but I should be so delighted if I only could . '' When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer an inlaid box of sandalwood . It held a little , slim , limp volume , wrapped in tissue paper -- the Old Lady 's most treasured possession . On the fly-leaf was written , `` To Margaret , with the author 's love . ''
The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves XXXXX trembling fingers and , through eyes brimming with tears , read the verses , although she had known them all by heart for years .
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