Loud, loud she shrieked, “Save me now from harm!”
“Oh, save my life, oh, save!”
Cruel echo mocked at her wild alarm.
Now she lies in a nameless grave.
Yet once a year when the night has come.
That marked her dreadful death.
You can hear her above the Ocean’s boom.
Out-pouring her dying breath.
“How do you like it?” he asked, when he had finished. “It’s called ‘The Shrieking Woman of Marblehead.’”
“Very well indeed,” said three of the girls. Amy alone was silent, and the expression of annoyance had not yet passed from her face.
“I like it very much,” added Nora, “although it is n’t exactly a cheerful story. Is it true?”
“Oh, Amy says so; that’s why she wrote the poem, because she had read the story somewhere, and she thought it so tragic. She likes tragic things.”
During this speech Amy had been growing redder and redder. For the three girls were looking at her, as if to say, “What a strange girl you are to write poetry!” or “To think that you can write it, how very queer!”
Julia was the first to break the silence. “Did you really write that? How delightful it must be to be able to! I really envy you.”
When Julia said anything, people were apt to believe her. Her voice had the ring of sincerity in it,—a quality which its possessor cannot overvalue.
“Why, thank you,” responded Amy. “I do not write very much—and I never show what I have written to
