“Whatever shall I do, Mr. Coristine?” asked the alarmed young lady; “I do not wish to lose my father’s gift through negligence.”

“You should have taken advice from the junior member of Tylor, Woodruff and White,” replied the lawyer, with a peculiar smile; “but the Grinstun man has bagged your estate.”

“Oh, do not say that, Mr Coristine.  Tell me, what shall I do?  And who is the man you mean?”

“The man I mean is the one that met you when you came here to dinner.  He is going to quarry in your farm for grindstones, and make his fortune.  But, as he wants yourself into the bargain, I imagine he can’t get the land without you, so that somebody must have paid the taxes.”

“Then it is the little wretch Marjorie told me of, the cruel creature who kicked a poor dog?”

“The very same; he is the Grinstun man.  I’ve got a poem on him I’ll read you some day.”

“That will be delightful; I am very fond of good poetry.”

“Wilks says it isn’t good poetry; but any man that grovels over Wordsworth, with a tear in the old man’s eye, is a poor judge.”

“I admire Wordsworth, Mr. Coristine, and am afraid that you are not in earnest about poetry.  To me it is like life, a very serious thing.  But, tell me, do you think the land is safe?”

“Oh yes; I wrote to one of the salaried juniors, giving him instructions to look after it, just as soon as I heard what Grinstuns had his eye on.”

“Mr. Coristine!  How shall I ever thank you for your kindness, you, of all men, who profess to treat us workers for our living as positive nonentities?”

“By forgetting the past, Miss Du Plessis, and allowing me the honour of your acquaintance in future.  By the-bye, as you admire Wordsworth, and good poetry, and airnest, serious men, I’ll just go and send Wilks to you.  I have a word for Miss Carmichael.  Is she constructed on the same poetic principles as yourself?”

“Go away then, farceur!  No; Marjorie is inclined to frivolity.”

With a wave of her fan, she dismissed the lawyer, who began to think lady stenographers and typewriters a class worthy of platonic attention.  “Short hand!” he muttered to himself; “hers is rather a long one and pretty, and she is a favourable type of her kind, but I’m afraid a pun would make her faint, when Wilks would certainly call me out and shoot me dead with his revolver.”

“Wilks, my boy,” said Coristine aloud, when he reached the stiff chair in which the dominie sat erect, facing Miss Carmichael on a lounge at safe distance; “Miss Du Plessis would like to hear you discuss Wordsworth and other Sunday poets.  She doesn’t seem to care about hearing my composition on the Grinstun man.”