Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem;
and we hold that when the poets of a nation are permeated by a lackadaisical sentiment—when they have the candour to style themselves the idle singers of an empty day—when the burden of their song is regret and weariness and a lamentation over former joys—then it is time for such poets and the nation they represent to take a back seat in the lecture halls of literature, and give way to the newer and stronger race that is bound to dominate the future.'
She read no farther; and it is a great pity that she did not; for the writer by and by went on to say some very nice things about these unlucky verses; and even hinted that here was a man who might be benefited by coming to stay in Chicago,—'the future capital of the future empire of the world,'—and by having his eyes opened as to the rate of progress possible in these modern days; and wound up with a most elaborate compliment to the intellectual perspicacity and judgment of Miss Carry herself. She did not read beyond what is quoted above for the simple reason that she was in a most violent rage, and also extremely mortified with herself for being so vexed. She tore the newspaper into shreds, and crushed these together, and flung them into the bottom of the boat. Her cheeks were quite pale; her eyes burning; and through all the anger of her disappointment ran the shame of the consciousness that it was she who had exposed Ronald to this insult. What though he should never know anything about it? Her friends in Chicago would know. And it was the man whom she wanted to glorify and make a hero of who had, through her instrumentality, been subjected to the pedantic criticism, the pretentious analyses, and, worst of all, the insulting patronage of this unspeakable ass. Suddenly she regretted the destruction of the newspaper; she would like to have looked at it again, to justify her wrath. No matter; she could remember enough; and she would not forget Jack Huysen's share in this transaction.
She was very silent and reserved at lunch time; and her father began to believe that, after all, in spite of her repeated assurances, their ill-luck with the fishing was weighing on her spirits.
'You know, Carry,' said he, 'it is not in the nature of things that weather like this can last in the Highlands of Scotland. It is notoriously one of the wettest places in the world. There must be rain coming soon; and then think of all the fish that will be rushing up in shoals, and what a time we shall have.'
'I am not disappointed with the fishing at all, pappa,' she said. 'I think we have done very well.'
'What is the matter, then?'
'Oh, nothing.'
And then she said—