These thoughts lay in Brandon’s mind, and strengthened every day of his short stay in Edinburgh; his strong-minded cousins thought Walter Brandon was more contemptible than ever, for he did not seem to have an idea in his head; whereas it was because he had one idea very strongly in his head and heart that he was so disinclined for argument or discussion.  Peggy, who perceived Brandon’s evident admiration, again regretted her own burst of confidence in her autobiographical sketch, but thought that now Miss Elsie was so downcast and so miserable, that she would never think of refusing so excellent an offer as her old master could make.  She began to praise Mr. Brandon—­to whose character, however, she never did full justice, from not understanding many of its best points.  She liked Mr. Phillips much better, who was graver.  Her Scotch phlegmatic temperament could not appreciate the fine spirit and unvarying good humour of Brandon, and his random way of talking she thought flighty and frivolous.  But yet she could, and did, praise him for his kindness of heart and his want of selfishness, which he had shown on many occasions, great and small, at Barragong.  These panegyrics were bestowed with discretion, not being told to Elsie herself, but brought out incidentally in conversation with grandfather, who thought highly of Brandon, and never ceased to extol his politeness.

Elsie and Brandon had a railway carriage to themselves for a considerable part of the way; and he thought he never could have a better opportunity of declaring himself; so, with rather less stammering and hesitation than is usual on such occasions—­for he had not the least doubt of a favourable answer—­he made Elsie understand that he loved her, and asked for her love in return.

“No, no—­oh, no!” said Elsie, covering her face with her hands.

“Why ‘No,’ Miss Alice?  ‘Yes’ sounds a great deal prettier.  I’ll take such good care of you, and I am sure you will like Australia.  Peggy has not given you a very dismal account of Barragong, and I have had it very much improved since her time, and I will have a great deal more done to it; and before we go I will have your book printed-----”

“My book,” said Elsie; “what book?”

“Your poems—­I know they are beautiful—­Peggy told me about them; and we will have them brought out in the very best style, and I will be so proud to think what a genius I have got for my own darling.”

Elsie sighed deeply; tried to speak, but could not.  It was a good sign, Mr. Brandon thought—­a sigh was ten times more encouraging than a smile.  He knew he had hit upon the right thing when he had spoken of her poems; it was wonderful how discerning love had made him.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Brandon,” said she with difficulty, scarcely daring to raise her eyes to the level of his waistcoat; “I am no genius, and my poems are not worth printing—­poor, crude, empty productions.  I believe I can make caps and bonnets, but that is all that I can do.”