e genius to see the truth of things more clearly than I could,
and tell it better than I could.

"Yes," I said, "if one could only see this Hempfield of ours as it
really is, all the poetry of it, all the passion of it, all the dullness
and mediocrity, all the tragedy of failure, all that is in the hearts
and souls of these common people--what a thing it would be! How it would
stir the world!"

I must have said it with my whole soul, as I felt it. I suppose I should
not have added fuel to the fire of that youth, I suppose I should have
been calm and old and practical.

For a moment Nort sat perfectly silent. Then I felt the trembling, eager
pressure of his hand on my arm. He leaned over toward me.

"David," he said, "you understand things."

There was that in his voice that I had never heard before. Usually he
had a half-humorous, yes, flippant, way with him, but there was
something here that touched bottom.

I don't know quite why it is, but after I have been serious about so
long, I have an irresistible desire to laugh. I find I can't remain in a
rarified atmosphere too long.

"Nort," I said suddenly, "you haven't been seeing any terrible truths
about Hempfield, have you?"

The change in his face was startling. He looked like a boy caught in the
jam closet--the colour suddenly flooding his cheeks.

"Where is it?" I asked. "Trot it out."

"How did you know?" asked that extraordinary young man.

I laughed.

"Nort," I said, "you aren't the only man in this world who is trying to
write--and is ashamed of himself because he can't."

With a smile which I can only characterize as sheepish, Nort drew from
his breast pocket a packet of paper. He was all eagerness again, and was
for reading me his production on the spot; but just at this moment we
saw the old Captain driving up to the gate alone. Where was Anthy? A
little later Fergus came, and for some time Harriet filled the whole
house with the pleasant noises and bustle of hospitality, which she
knows best how to do.

"Captain," I said as soon as ever I could get in a word, "Nort has
brought a manuscript with him to read to us."

At that the Captain instinctively lifted one hand to his breast.

"The Captain has one, too," I said.

"A mere editorial," responded the Captain with dignity.

"Where's yours, Fergus?" I asked.

Fergus took his pipe out, barked once or twice deep down inside, and put
it back again, which, interpreted, meant that Fergus was a