“The sunshine climbs the wall behind him, creeps stealthily across the ceiling of the room, slips out softly by the window, leaving him alone.  All these years he had been living with a fellow poet.  They should have been comrades, and they had never spoken.  Why had she hidden herself?  Why had she left him, never revealing herself?  Years ago, when they were first married—­he remembers now—­she had slipped little blue-bound copy-books into his pocket, laughing, blushing, asking him to read them.  How could he have guessed?  Of course, he had forgotten them.  Later, they had disappeared again; it had never occurred to him to think.  Often in the earlier days she had tried to talk to him about his work.  Had he but looked into her eyes, he might have understood.  But she had always been so homely-seeming, so good.  Who would have suspected?  Then suddenly the blood rushes into his face.  What must have been her opinion of his work?  All these years he had imagined her the amazed devotee, uncomprehending but admiring.  He had read to her at times, comparing himself the while with Moliere reading to his cook.  What right had she to play this trick upon him?  The folly of it!  The pity of it!  He would have been so glad of her.”

“What becomes, I wonder,” mused the Philosopher, “of the thoughts that are never spoken?  We know that in Nature nothing is wasted; the very cabbage is immortal, living again in altered form.  A thought published or spoken we can trace, but such must only be a small percentage.  It often occurs to me walking down the street.  Each man and woman that I pass by, each silently spinning his silken thought, short or long, fine or coarse.  What becomes of it?”

“I heard you say once,” remarked the Old Maid to the Minor Poet, “that ‘thoughts are in the air,’ that the poet but gathers them as a child plucks wayside blossoms to shape them into nosegays.”

“It was in confidence,” replied the Minor Poet.  “Please do not let it get about, or my publisher will use it as an argument for cutting down my royalties.”

“I have always remembered it,” answered the Old Maid.  “It seemed so true.  A thought suddenly comes to you.  I think of them sometimes, as of little motherless babes creeping into our brains for shelter.”

“It is a pretty idea,” mused the Minor Poet.  “I shall see them in the twilight:  pathetic little round-eyed things of goblin shape, dimly luminous against the darkening air.  Whence come you, little tender Thought, tapping at my brain?  From the lonely forest, where the peasant mother croons above the cradle while she knits?  Thought of Love and Longing:  lies your gallant father with his boyish eyes unblinking underneath some tropic sun?  Thought of Life and Thought of Death:  are you of patrician birth, cradled by some high-born maiden, pacing slowly some sweet garden?  Or did you spring to life amid the din of loom or factory?  Poor little nameless foundlings!  I shall feel myself in future quite a philanthropist, taking them in, adopting them.”