'I declare I am quite jealous of you, doctor,' said Jim. 'I wish you would teach me to write poetry so that I might have a chance of winning back Molly's affections.'
'Poetry is not taught,' said Dr Tom, grandly. 'It is born in men. It is a genius, a gift from the gods.'
'You don't say so?' replied Jim. 'Then you are a spoilt child of the gods.'
'Very much spoilt,' said Dr Tom, laughing. 'In order to calm your jealous suspicions I will write my next poem upon your many admirable qualities.'
'Don't; please spare me that,' said Jim. 'I could not stand it. Anything but that, doctor. Have some mercy upon me.'
'Jim, you are too severe upon him,' said Molly. 'I am sure some of Dr Tom's poetry is beautiful; the sentiment is charming.'
'I am amply repaid,' said the doctor. 'Such praise from so fair a lady is a grand recompense for hours of toil.'
They all laughed merrily, and Dr Tom vowed he would do something brilliant in the future.
One calm, peaceful night Jim Dennis sat on the broad verandah at Cudgegong, and, looking across the green lands before him, thought over the past and contrasted it with the present.