“Isn’t it also true, father, that one cannot control his likes and dislikes?  Tim has told me he can’t bear the thought of spending his life in getting out great blocks of stone and trimming them into shape for building.  He said he wished he could feel as you do, but there’s no use of his trying.”

“Fudge!” was the impatient exclamation; “what business has a boy of his years to talk or think about what sort of business he prefers?  It is my place to select his future avocation and his to accept it without a growl.”

“He will do that, father.”

“Of course he will,” replied the parent with a compression of his thin lips and a flash of his eyes; “when I yield to a boy fourteen years old, it will be time to shift me off to the lunatic asylum.”

“Why, then, are you displeased, since he will do what you wish and do it without complaint?

“I am displeased because he is dissatisfied and has no heart in his work.  He shows no interest in anything relating to the quarries and it is becoming worse every day with him.”

“Didn’t he help this forenoon?”

“Yes, because I told him he must be on hand as soon as he was through breakfast and not leave until he went to dinner.”

“Did you say nothing about his working this afternoon?”

“No; I left that out on purpose to test him.”

“What was the result?”

“I haven’t seen hide or hair of him since; I suppose he is off in the woods or up in his room, reading or figuring on some invention.  Do you know where he is?”

“He has been in his room almost all the afternoon and is there now.”

“Doing what?”

“I guess you have answered that question,” replied Maggie laying aside her sewing because of the increasing shadows, and looking across at her father with a smile.

“That’s what makes me lose all patience.  What earthly good is it for him to sit in his room drawing figures of machines he dreams of making, or scribbling over sheets of paper?  If this keeps up much longer, he will take to writing poetry, and the next thing will be smoking cigarettes and then his ruin will be complete.”

Maggie’s clear laughter rang out on the summer air.  She was always overflowing with spirits and the picture drawn by her parent and the look of profound disgust on his face as he uttered his scornful words stirred her mirth beyond repression.

“What are you laughing at?” he demanded, turning toward her, though without any anger in his tones, for he could never feel any emotion of that nature toward such a daughter.

“It was the idea of Tim writing poetry or rhyme and smoking cigarettes.  I’ll guarantee that he will never do either.”

“Nor anything else, you may as well add.”

“I’ll guarantee that if he lives he will do a good many things that will be better than getting out and trimming stone.”

This was not the first time that Maggie had intimated the same faith, without going into particulars or giving any idea upon what she based that faith.  The parent looked sharply at her and asked: