CHAPTER XVIII
EDITH’S COUSIN
THAT was to be Margery’s last evening at Fred’s. Edith had kept her as long as she could, but the girl felt that her place was with Miss Letitia. Edith was desolate.
“I don’t know what I am going to do without you,” she said that night when we were all together in the library, with a wood fire, for light and coziness more than heat. Margery was sitting before the fire, and while the others talked she sat mostly silent, looking into the blaze.
The May night was cold and rainy, and Fred had been reading us a poem he had just finished, receiving with indifference my comment on it, and basking in Edith’s rapture.
“Do you know yourself what it is about?” I inquired caustically.
“If it’s about anything, it isn’t poetry,” he replied. “Poetry appeals to the ea
