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ve home to the time I return. Especially,"--his eyes twinkled in the mischievous manner to which exception had just been taken--"especially poetry! Don't mind my saying so, do you?" "Not a bit," returned Margot promptly, tossing her first stone into the lake with a vehemence which held more than a suspicion of temper. "Of course I never--one would never--_expect_ you to like it. It would be the last thing one would expect--" "Too fat?" She blushed at that, and had the grace to look a trifle distressed. "Oh, not that altogether. It's a `_Je ne sais quoi_,' don't you know. One could tell at a glance that you were not a literary man." The Chieftain chuckled, bent down to gather a handful of stones, and raised a red smiling face to hers. "Well, well, we can't all be geniuses, you know! One in a glen is about as much as you can expect to meet in these hard times. But I can chuck stones with the best of 'em. That one was a good dozen yards beyond your last throw. Put your back into it, and see what you can do. It's a capital way of letting off steam." Margot was tempted to protest against the accusation, but reflection prompted silence, since after all she _was_ cross, and there was no denying it. She took the little man's advice, and "let off steam" by the vigour and determination with which she hurled pebbles into the lake, making them skim along the surface in professional manner for an ever longer and longer space before finally disappearing from sight. The Chieftain cheered her on with example and precept, and, as usual, irritation died a speedy death in the presence of his bright, cheery personality. While they were still laughing and cheering each other on to fresh exploits, a lad from the post office passed along the road, and the Chieftain wheeled round to call out the usual question-- "Anything for me? Is the post in already?" The lad shook his head. He was a red-headed sociable-looking creature who seemed only too glad to enliven his walk by a chat _en route_. His teeth showed in a cheerful smile as he replied-- "The post willna be here for an hour or mair. It's just a telegram!" A telegram! It said much for the peaceful seclusion of the Glen that the very sound of the word brought a chill of apprehension to the listening ears. No one received telegrams at the Nag's Head. One and all the visitors had sojourned thither with the aim of getting away as far as possible from
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