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 were as yet in a rough and unfinished state entirely unsatisfactory to their author. When they were completed, he would be only too happy to oblige.

If they urged him to have them printed and permit the world to enjoy them, he would point out gently that he was entirely indifferent, even averse, to the plaudits of the public, that he wrote poetry just for the joy of it, and that it would seem to him a desecration to share the children of his brain with any but his nearest and dearest friends. The said friends drank all this in with open mouths, and in time he came to wear in their eyes not only a laurel wreath but a halo.

One of these friends happened one day to see in print a set of six stanzas entitled “Rock Me to Sleep,” and signed “Florence Percy.” He recognized the poem as one of Mr. Ball’s—the one, indeed, which he was fondest of reading and which was admired most—and hastened to that gentleman to inform him that some brazen hussy was trying to steal his laurels. But Mr. Ball was not disturbed—his halo did not even quiver. It mattered not to him, he explained, who got the credit for the verses; he had had the pleasure of writing them, and that was enough. Let Florence Percy, whoever she might be, go in peace—her conscience would punish her.