ed tremblingly.

John stretched out his hand for the magazine, and Elizabeth, watching
him as he read, drew a big breath of joy. She could tell by his
kindling eye that he was both proud and pleased. But, as she expected,
he expressed no praise.

"There's a good deal of hot air in it, Lizzie," he remarked dryly.
"And say, you and Mac must have been collaborating. He had that very
same expression in his speech last night--'member, Mac, when you
brought down the house that time when you flung something 'against the
eternal heavens,' or some such disorderly act. Here's Lizzie up to the
same business."

The young orator looked foolishly pleased, and the young poetess pulled
the critic's ears. But her heart was light and joyous. John liked her
poem, and that was more to her than the most flattering praise from the
public. For Elizabeth was much more a woman than a poet.

"You're a barbarian, John Gordon," she cried. "He doesn't know a
finely turned phrase from a dissecting-knife; does he, Stuart? But
really, it sounds far better than I thought it could. You read so
well."

"When did you take to rhyming, Lizzie?" asked her brother. "I really
didn't know it was in you."

But Elizabeth was watching Charles Stuart anxiously. He had taken up
the magazine again and was reading it absorbedly. She waited, but he
said nothing. But those dark, deep eyes of his, so like his mother's,
had a wistful look, a look that reminded Elizabeth of the expression in
Mother MacAllister's on the occasion of her last visit home. She
regarded him, rather troubled. What was the matter with her little
verses? She knew Charles Stuart was much more capable of a sound
judgment than John; she knew also that his kindly heart would prompt
him to say something pleasant if he could.

There was an awkward silence. Happily it was broken by the sound of
stumbling footsteps in the passage without. The door opened noisily
and a wild-looking head, with long, tangled hair, was poked into the
room. It emitted in sepulchral tones:

"I say, Gordon, will you lend me your bones?"

The wild eyes caught sight of Elizabeth, and the visitor backed out
suddenly with a look of agony, crashing against the door frame as he
disappeared.

"It's Bagsley!" cried John, springing up. "Hi, Bags, come back here!"
He whistled as if for a dog.

"He's scared to death of girls," said Charles Stuart; "better get under
the table, Lizzie."

"Hurrah, Bagsley!