ne stenographers and
typewriters."

"No, I don't, that's a fact; but if I had known that it was you who were
one, it would have been a different thing."

"Now, Mr. Coristine, please make no compliments of doubtful sincerity."

"I never was more sincere in my life. But you haven't answered me about
the land."

"Well, I will answer you; I have no farm or valuable minerals, but my
father left me two hundred acres of water and wild land near what's
called the Lake Settlement, which he bought when Honoria married Mr.
Carruthers and took up her residence here."

"Do you know if the taxes are paid on your land?"

"No, I was not aware that wild land and water could be taxed."

"Taxed is it? You don't know these municipalities. If you had a little
island in your name, no bigger than this room, they'd tax you for it,
and make you pay school rate, and do statute labour beside, though there
wasn't a school or a road within ten miles of it. For downright jewing
and most unjustifiable extortion on non-residents, commend me to a
township council. You'll be sold out by the sheriff of the county, sure
as eggs, and the Grinstun man'll buy your property for the arrears of
taxes."

"Whatever shall I do, Mr. Coristine?" asked the alarmed young lady; "I
do not wish to lose my father's gift through negligence."

"You should have taken advice from the junior member of Tylor, Woodruff
and White," replied the lawyer, with a peculiar smile; "but the Grinstun
man has bagged your estate."

"Oh, do not say that, Mr Coristine. Tell me, what shall I do? And who is
the man you mean?"

"The man I mean is the one that met you when you came here to dinner. He
is going to quarry in your farm for grindstones, and make his fortune.
But, as he wants yourself into the bargain, I imagine he can't get the
land without you, so that somebody must have paid the taxes."

"Then it is the little wretch Marjorie told me of, the cruel creature
who kicked a poor dog?"

"The very same; he is the Grinstun man. I've got a poem on him I'll read
you some day."

"That will be delightful; I am very fond of good poetry."

"Wilks says it isn't good poetry; but any man that grovels over
Wordsworth, with a tear in the old man's eye, is a poor judge."

"I admire Wordsworth, Mr. Coristine, and am afraid that you are not in
earnest about poetry. To me it is like life, a very serious thing. But,
tell me, do you think the land is safe?"

"Oh yes; I wrote to one of