“There are some of ’em,” he said cheerfully, “which are a lot better than others. I’m not partial to amateur verses myself, but I don’t mind telling you for your comfort that I’ve seen worse, before now—considerably worse!”
Poor Ron! It was bitter comfort. In the blessed privacy of his own room he sat himself down to read over the pages of the little black book with painful criticism, asking himself miserably if it were really true that they were feeble amateur efforts, tinged with pretence and unreality. Here and there a flush and a wince proved that the accusation had gone home, when a vigorous pencil mark on the side of the page marked the necessity for correction, but on the whole he could honestly refute the charge; could declare, with the bold yet humble conviction of the true craftsman, that it was good work; work well done; work worth doing!
The dreamy brown eyes sent out a flash of determination.
“I can!” said Ron to himself. “And I will!”
Chapter Twenty One.
A Mountain Mist.
Three days later a wagonette was chartered from Rew, to drive the diminished party to the scene of the haunted castle. Margot felt rather shy in the position of the only lady, but a mild proposition that she should stay at home had been so vigorously vetoed that she had nothing more to say.
“If one clergyman, plus one brother, plus one bald-headed veteran, aren’t sufficient chaperons for one small girl, things are coming to a pretty pass indeed!” protested the Chieftain vigorously. “If you stay at home, we all stay, so that’s settled, and the disappointment and upset will be on your head. Why all this fuss, I should like to know? One might think you were shy.”