It was so cool and shadowy down there that at first it was a temptation just to sit and listen to the lap of the water against the shore, but the very length of the shadows warned her that the afternoon was passing, and after a few moments she fell to work again with conscientious energy.
So deeply did she become absorbed in her task, she did not look up when some one came down the steps behind her.

It was an adoring little freshman, who had caught the glimmer of her pink dress behind the tree.
The special-delivery letter she carried was her excuse for following.
She had been in a flutter of delight when Madame Chartley put it in her hand, asking her to find Elizabeth Lewis and give it to her.

But now that she stood in the charmed presence, actually watching a poem in the process of construction, she paused, overwhelmed by the feeling that she was rushing in "where angels feared to tread." Still, special-delivery letters are important things.

Like time and tide they wait for no man.

Somebody might be dead or dying.