eorge Elgood rose to his feet with a gesture of strongest astonishment.

"I the Editor of a magazine! My dearest little girl, what are you
dreaming about? There never was a man less suited to the position. I
know nothing whatever of magazines--of any sort of literature. I am in
corn!"

A corn merchant! Margot's brain reeled. She lay back in her chair,
staring at him with wide, stunned eyes, too utterly prostrated by
surprise to be capable of speech!

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR.

Could it be believed that it was the _Chieftain_ who was the Editor,
after all! That short, fat, undignified, commonplace little man! "Not
in the least the type,"--so Ron had pronounced, in his youthful
arrogance, "No one would ever suspect _you_ of being literary!" so saucy
Margot had declared to his face. She blushed at the remembrance of the
words, blushed afresh, as, one after another, a dozen memories rushed
through her brain. That afternoon by the tarn, for example, when she
had summoned courage to confess her scheme, and he had lain prone on the
grass, helpless and shaken with laughter!

No wonder that he had laughed! but oh, the wickedness, the duplicity of
the wretch, to breathe no word of her mistake, but promptly set to work
to weave a fresh plot on his own account! This was the reason why he
had extracted a promise that George was not to be told of Ron's ambition
during his holiday, feigning an anxiety for his brother's peace of mind,
which he was in reality doing his best to destroy! This was the
explanation of everything that had seemed mysterious and contradictory.
He had been laughing in his sleeve all the time he had pretended to
help!

George Elgood listened with a mingling of amaze, amusement, and
tenderness to the hidden history of the weeks at Glenaire. Being in the
frame of mind when everything that Margot did seemed perfect in his
eyes, he felt nothing but admiration for her efforts on her brother's
behalf.

It was an ingenious, unselfish little scheme, and the manner in which
she had laid it bare to the person most concerned was delightfully
unsophisticated. He laughed at her tenderly, stroking her soft, pretty
hair with his big man's hand, the while he explained that he was a
business man pure and simple, and had made no excursions whatever into
literature; that the "writing" with which he had been occupied was
connected with proposed changes in his firm, and a report of