ded to occupy the hours before
bedtime.

Margot made no demur, but stood watching quietly while Ron tore off the
wrapper, and flattened the curled paper. She was not in a reading mood,
but the suggestion that George Elgood might have sent the magazine made
it precious in her sight, and she waited anxiously for its return.

"It's mine, Ron. It was sent to me! I want to take it upstairs."

"Let me look at the index first, to see who is writing this month! You
don't generally care for such stiff reading; I say, there's a fine
collection of names! It's stronger than ever this month. I don't
believe there is another paper in the world which has such splendid
fellows for contribu--"

Ron stopped short, his voice failing suddenly in the middle of the word.
His jaw dropped, and a wave of colour surged in his cheeks.

"It--it can't be!" he gasped incredulously. "It _can't_! There must be
another man of the same name. It can't possibly be meant for _me_!..."

"What? What? Let me see? What are you talking about?" cried Margot,
peering eagerly over his shoulder, while Ron pointed with a trembling
finger to the end of the table of contents. Somehow the words seemed to
be printed in a larger type than the rest. They grew larger and larger
until they seemed to fill the whole page--"_Solitude. A Fragment. By
Ronald Vane_!"

"Oh, Ron, it is!" shrieked Margot, in happy excitement. "It _is_ you,
and no one else! I _told_ you it was beautiful when you read it to me
that day in the Glen! Oh, when did you send it to him?"

"Never! I never so much as mentioned my verses in his hearing. That
was part of the bargain--that we should not worry him on his holiday.
Margot, it was you! You are only pretending that you know nothing about
it. It must be your doing."

"Indeed it isn't! I never even spoke of you to him." Margot had the
grace to blush at the confession; but by this time Ron had turned over
the pages until he had come to the one on which his own words faced him
in the beautiful distinct typing of the magazine, and the rapture of the
moment precluded every other sentiment. He did not hear what Margot
said, so absorbed was he in re-reading the lines in their delightful new
setting.

"It _is_ good; but it is only a fragment. It isn't finished. Why was
this chosen, instead of one of the others?"

"I told you you would ruin it if you made it longer. It is perfect as
it is, and anything more would be pa