nhood, and begins to think of making his own way in the world.
All kinds of shadowy pictures of the future were floating in his mental
vision, day dreams of brave deeds and great achievements, and laurel
wreaths to be won by hands that had the luck to pluck them. His eyes
were shining as he bade Lorraine good-bye.

"You must have thought me rather a slacker sometimes," he said. "But
really there wasn't anything to urge a fellow on at home. Perhaps I'll
tumble into my own niche some day. Who knows? Would you be glad,
Lorraine, if you saw me doing decently?"

"Glad? Of course I should!"

"I didn't know whether you'd worry your head one way or another about
it, or care twopence whether I went to the dogs or not!"

"Don't be silly! You're not going to the dogs."

"I might--if nobody was sufficiently interested in me to mind."

"Heaps of people are interested!"

"One doesn't want people in heaps--I prefer interest singly. By the by,
if you've any time to spare, you might write to a fellow now and again.
I'll want letters in camp."

"All serene! I'll send you one sometimes."

"Just to remind me of home."

"Morland! I believe you've got home-sickness as badly as Claudia. You'll
be back at Porthkeverne before long, unless I'm greatly mistaken!"

"With my first leave, certainly," twinkled Morland.

As the weeks passed by in April, the artistic world of Porthkeverne
reached a high pitch of anticipation and excitement. Practically every
painter there had submitted something to the Academy, and the burning
question was which among them would be lucky enough to have their work
accepted. They looked out eagerly for the post, awaiting either a
welcome varnishing ticket or a printed notice regretting that for lack
of space their contributions could not be included in the exhibition,
and requesting them to remove their pictures as speedily as possible.

In the studio down by the harbour expectation ran rife. Margaret Lindsay
had finished her painting of "Kilmeny"--if not altogether to her own
satisfaction, at any rate to that of most of her friends--and had
dispatched it to the Academy.

"I don't believe for a moment that it will get in," she assured
Lorraine. "I never seem to have any luck, somehow. I'm not a lucky
person."

"Perhaps you will have this time," said Lorraine, who was washing out
oil paint brushes for her friend, a messy task which she sometimes
undertook. "Let's _will_ that you shall be accepted. You _s