st of critics. For a few moments he had not courage to
look at his companion's face, but even without that eloquent guide it
was easy to follow his impressions.

A grunt, a groan, a long incredulous whistle, a sharp intake of breath--
these were but too readily translated as adverse criticisms, but between
these explosions came intervals of silence less easy to explain. Ron
deliberately rolled over on his side, turning his back on his companion,
thereby making it impossible to see his face. Those who have never
trusted their inmost thoughts to paper can hardly imagine the acute
suffering of the moment when they are submitted to the cold criticism of
an outsider. Life and death themselves seemed to hang in the balance
for the young poet during the half-hour when he lay on the heather
listening to each sound and movement of his critic. At the end of half
an hour the interruption came. A yawn, a groan, the pressure of a heavy
hand on his shoulder.

"Now then, wake up, over there! Time to move on!"

Awake! As if it were possible that he could be asleep! Never in his
life had he been more acutely, painfully conscious of his surroundings.
Ron rose to his feet, casting the while a tense glance at his
companion's face. What verdict would he see written on eye and mouth as
the result of that half-hour's study? He met a smile of bland good-
humour; the cheery, carelessly complacent smile of the breakfast-table,
the smoke-room, the after-dinner game; with not one trace of emotion, of
kindled feeling, or even ordinary appreciation! The black note-book was
tossed into his hands, as carelessly as if it had been a ball; even a
commonplace word of comment was denied.

It was a bitter moment, but, to the lad's credit be it said, he met it
bravely. A gulp to a tiresome lump in the throat, a slight quivering of
the sensitive lips, and he was master of himself again, hastily stuffing
the precious note-book out of sight, and striving to display the right
amount of interest in his companion's conversation. It was not until
the inn was within sight that Mr Elgood made the slightest allusion to
the verses which he had read.

"Ah--about those rhymes!" he began casually. "Don't take yourself too
seriously, you know. It's a strange thing that young people constitute
themselves the pessimists of the world, while the old ones, who know
what real trouble is, are left to do the optimism by themselves. If you
are bound to sing, s