"Never! I never so much as mentioned my verses in his hearing. That was part of the bargain--that we should not worry him on his holiday. Margot, it was you! You are only pretending that you know nothing about it. It must be your doing." "Indeed it isn't! I never even spoke of you to him." Margot had the grace to blush at the confession; but by this time Ron had turned over the pages until he had come to the one on which his own words faced him in the beautiful distinct typing of the magazine, and the rapture of the moment precluded every other sentiment. He did not hear what Margot said, so absorbed was he in re-reading the lines in their delightful new setting. "It _is_ good; but it is only a fragment. It isn't finished. Why was this chosen, instead of one of the others?" "I told you you would ruin it if you made it longer. It is perfect as it is, and anything more would be padding. It is a little gem, worthy even of a place in the _Loadstar_. Father, do you hear? Do you understand? Look at your son's name among all those great men! Aren't you glad? Aren't you _proud_! Aren't you going to congratulate us _both_?" Mr Vane growled a little, for the sake of appearances; but though his eyebrows frowned, the corners of his lips relaxed in a manner distinctly complacent. Even recognising as he did the herald of defeat, it was impossible to resist a thrill of pride as his eye glanced down the imposing list of names held open for his inspection. A great scientist; a great statesman; a leading author; an astronomer known throughout the world; a soldier veteran, and near the end that other name, so dearly familiar--the name of his own son! The voice in which he spoke was gruff with emotion. "Humph! You are in good company, at least. Let me see the verses themselves. There must be something in them, I suppose, but I am no judge of these things." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. "IN CORN." Meantime Margot had returned to the far end of the room, and adroitly slipped the third letter out of her pocket, feeling that it would be selfish to delay reading the contents, as they must certainly cast some light upon the present situation. Her heart sank a little as she recognised that the attention was less personal than she had imagined, but even so, it was to herself that the magazine had been directed, and that was an evidence of the fact that in publishing the poem her pleasure had been considered even more than Ronald's advancement. She tore open the stiff white envelope and read as follows:-- "Dear Miss Vane,--