iser, he felt it his duty to tell her that she would
likely get tangled up in that long tail and break some of her bones.

"I'll bet a box of chocolates you can't tell the color of it,"
Elizabeth said. She was glancing nervously at Charles Stuart. He was
surely near the place in the magazine. The guessing grew lively, John
finally giving his verdict that the dress was "some sort of dark
white," when Elizabeth saw Charles Stuart pause and read absorbedly.

"It's your turn, Stuart," she cried, to gain time. "John's
color-blind."

Charles Stuart glanced up. It was no easy task this, examining
Elizabeth's gown, under the fire of her eyes.

"Another new dress," he said evasively. "I suppose that woman has been
taking you to another Green Tea this afternoon."

From the day Mrs. Jarvis had made Elizabeth her paid companion, Charles
Stuart had taken a strong dislike to the lady, and always spoke of her
as "that woman."

"A 'Green Tea,'" groaned Elizabeth. "Charles Stuart MacAllister! It
sounds like something Auntie Jinit would brew at a quiltin'. It's
positively shameful not to be better acquainted with the terms of
polite society."

"Well, here's something I _can_ appreciate," he said, still avoiding
her glance and turning to the magazine again. "Listen to this. It's
as pretty as the dress."

Elizabeth stiffened. It was her poem. He walked over to the lamp and
read it aloud. It was that old, old one of the moonrise and sunset she
had written long ago, now polished and re-dressed in better verse; a
pretty little thing, full of color, bright and picturesque, nothing
more. But it was Elizabeth's first success. The _Dominion_ had
accepted it with a flattering comment that had made her heart beat
faster ever since. But the young poetess was far more anxious as to
what "the boys" would think of it than the most critical editor in all
broad Canada.

Charles Stuart knew how to read, and he expressed the sentiment of the
pretty verses in a way that made Elizabeth look at him with her breath
suspended. They sounded so much better than she had dared hope.

John looked up with shining eyes. "I've seen that very thing at home,
at The Dale, in the evening." He turned sharply and looked at his
sister's flushed face and downcast eyes. "Hooroo!" he shouted. "A
poetess! Oh, Lizzie. This is a terrible blow!" He fell back into his
chair and fanned himself.

"Do you really truly like it, John?" the author ask