Margot ran forward, laughing, and she and Ron were soon scrambling up

the hillside, side by side.

"That's a good fellow. I like him! He will be very interesting when

one gets beneath the surface," pronounced the boy thoughtfully.

Margot nodded emphatically.

"I'm going to love him! I feel it in my bones, and he is going to love

me too, but unfortunately he's the wrong man. He says that his brother

hates women, and will do all he can to avoid me, so you must take things

into your own hands, Ron! I can't help you, so you must help yourself.

You will have to cultivate his acquaintance, and get him to take you

about, and talk to him, and try to get intimate. You will, won't you?

Promise me that you will!"

She looked with anxiety into the lad's face as she spoke, for previous

experience had proved that Ron possessed the full share of those

failings which are most characteristic of his temperament: a sudden

cooling of interest at critical moments; a shirking of responsibility,

an inclination to drift. It was a part of the artistic nature, which

had an irritating effect on more practical mortals. Now, as she feared,

he remained as placidly unmoved by the intelligence as if it had no

bearing whatever on his own prospects.

"Oh, all right. I'll see! You can't rush things, if a fellow keeps out

of your way. Our opening will come in time, if we leave it to chance

and don't worry. I believe I am going to do really good work here,

Margot! I had an idea last night, after you had gone to bed, and I was

watching the stars through the pines. I won't read it to you yet, for

it wants working up, but it's good--I am sure it is good! And that

little stream along from the house; I found a song motif in

that,--`Clear babbling over amber bed!' How's that for a word-

picture? Shows the whole thing, doesn't it? The crystal clearness of

the water; the music of its flow, the curious golden colour of the

rocks. I'm always pleased when I can hit off a description in a line.

I'm glad we came, Margot! There's inspiration in this place."

But for once Margot refused to be sympathetic.

"You did not come for inspiration, you came for a definite, practical

purpose; and if you write a hundred poems, it won't make up for

neglecting it. Now, Ron, wake up! I shall be angry with you if you

don't do all you can for yourself. Promise me that you will try!"

"All right! All right! Do let us be happy while we have the chance,

Margot. We had enough worry at home, and this place is perfect. Let us

be wise children, and take no thought for the morrow. What would Elgood

think of you, beginning to worry about the future, the moment his back

was turned? She was a pretty illustration, wasn't she?--that little

bare-headed child. Did you notice her hair? Almost white against the

russet of her skin."




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