“Have you provoked the muse lately, Mr. Howard?” she asked.
“No, Miss Jones. I find school teaching unfavorable to poetry. If I should undertake to write verses after I get home from school, my mind would certainly stray away to fractions, or the boundaries of States, or something equally prosaic.”
“That is a pity. You should try to cultivate and develop your powers. Perhaps the editor of this paper would insert some of your verses.”
“I don’t think I shall offer any. I must wait till I get more leisure. Besides, I am afraid I could not reach the high standard which the paper has attained since you became a contributor.”
“You are a sad flatterer, Mr. Howard,” said the delighted Melinda.
“I assure you, Miss Jones, that I could not write anything like the lines on a ‘dying leaf.’”
“Oh, I am sure you could, Mr. Howard. You are too modest. Those lines you once read me were so sweet.”
“Now it is you that flatters, Miss Jones.”
I am afraid Walter was not quite justifiable in so ministering to the vanity of Miss Jones, since, of course, he was not sincere. He perhaps thought it required by politeness, but it is desirable to be as sincere as possible, of course avoiding rudeness.
Nine weeks of the school term had passed, and two more would bring a vacation of a month. Nothing had been said to Walter about his teaching the following term, but he presumed it would be offered him, since his administration had been an undoubted success. In another way, however, he had not yet succeeded. He had not been able to learn anything more of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, and this, as our readers know, was the great object of his present visit to Portville. He was thinking over this, and wondering what course it was best for him to take, when Edward Atkins, one of his scholars, brought him a letter from the post office.