a trilogy" had proved a little too much, even for that will of iron.
"It is very nice, if I may say so, very nice indeed," said Miss Sanderson cautiously.
"I'll be doin' better than that, I'm thinkin'." A certain rigidity came into the voice of the author of the poem. The word "nice," was almost an affront; it had come upon his ear like a false quantity upon that of a classical scholar.
"Did you really do it all by yourself?" The inquiry was due less to the performance, which Harriet was quite unable to judge, than to the author's almost terrible concentration of manner, which clearly implied that it would not do to take such an achievement for granted.
"Every worrd, Miss Sanderrson. Except"
"Except what, Mr. Maclean?"
"Mr. Lonie, the Presbyterian Minister, helped me a bit wi' the scansion."
"If I may say so, I think it is remarkably clever."
It appeared, however, that these pages were only the opening stanzas of a poem which was meant to have many. They were still in the limbo of time, behind the high forehead of the author, but upon a day they would burst inevitably upon an astonished world. Would Miss Sanderson accept the dedication?
Miss Sanderson, blushing a little from acute surprise, said that nothing would give her greater pleasure. She was amazed, she wanted to laugh, but the intense, almost truculent earnestness of the young man had put an enchantment upon her.
But all this was simply a prelude to the great drama
