“Oh, no.  Do not imagine me to be a real author—­only an occasional scribbler.  Mr. Malcolm can tell you that I do not write much.”

“You must show Mr. Brandon your album,” said Mr. Malcolm, “and let him judge for himself.”

“Will you let me see it too?” said Elsie eagerly; “do let me see it.”

“You may look over it together,” said Miss Rennie good-naturedly, “though I do not show it to every one.  It will perhaps convince Mr. Brandon that it is nothing so wonderful to write verses, and make him less distant in his manner.  My own pieces are signed Ella.”

Miss Rennie’s album contained a number of selections from her favourite poets, but except her own there were no original verses in it.  Her friends preferred copying to composing, and among a very large circle she was the only one who had tried any independent flight into the regions of poetry; so that it was natural she should think a good deal of herself, for every one begged for something of her own to put into their albums, though they could not reciprocate in kind.  Mr. Malcolm contributed some smart prose pieces; Herbert Watson was clever at caricatures; Eleanor painted flowers sweetly; while Laura Wilson, ambitious to have something to show in Miss Rennie’s album, had copied a number of riddles in a very angular hand, which was illegible to an unpractised eye.

Elsie and Mr. Brandon, however, had got the album to see Ella’s verses, and they turned to them with curiosity and interest.  Her quicker eye and greater experience, both in poetry and in ladies’ handwriting, made her read each piece in less than half the time taken by Mr. Brandon, and she re-read and scanned every line and weighed every sentiment and simile while he was making his way to the end.

“Well, really this is remarkably good,” said he.  “I wonder Miss Rennie does not publish:  she could fill a nice little volume.  I am sure I have seen far worse verses printed.  Have not you?”

“Yes,” said Elsie.  “I believe Miss Rennie has had pieces published in periodicals, but it is not so easy to get a volume printed.”

“Of course, there is a risk; but then the pleasure, the fame, should count for something.  To have one’s name on the title-page of a pretty little volume must be very gratifying to the feelings.”

“Oh no, not at all.  I do not think so; but I do not know anything about it.  I should not speak.”

“You shrink from any publicity; well, I suppose that is very natural, too, yet I should not think that Miss Rennie does so; and as she is the author, I am imagining her feelings.  What is this other piece called?—­’Life’s Journey.’  What can Miss Rennie know of life’s journey—­staying at home with her father and mother all her short life?”

“If she had been to Australia and back again, she would have been entitled to speak on the subject,” said Elsie.

“But really it is a very pretty piece, after all,” said Mr. Brandon, after he had read it.