"And the live stock?" she went on. "Flourishing, thank you," he returned. "Hens sitting?" she asked. "And oh, Francis, did that baby pig learn to grunt properly, the one that loved wallowing in the mire?" But here her hostess claimed the girl’s attention, and Francis settled himself to the business in hand—luncheon—inwardly resolving to be even with Hazel yet. The day passed pleasantly enough, resting with books and work in the shade during the afternoon, walking through the sunlit meadows when the heat of the day was subsiding. In the evening the young folk entertained each other with music, Hazel singing some quaint songs in her own way—an adorable little way in the opinion of Paul Charteris, an opinion shared to-night most fervently by Digby Travers. Soon after ten o’clock Hazel found herself alone at last, with hours before her, supposing she could manage to keep awake, for meditation upon the scheme that had come to her at sight of the little writing-table. Her own room at home did not boast such a convenience, and it is to be presumed that the publicity of the position of the few desks and escritoires about the house had prevented the idea from occurring to Hazel’s mind before. She would write a story—a thrilling, exciting story—and make all the money she could possibly want! Here, all alone in the undisturbed quiet of her own room, she would write diligently, and her week’s visit might result in half-a-dozen stories for Teddie to take to some editor! Hazel was perturbed by no fear that she might lack talent and ability, but it was not long before she perceived that she was mistaken in the amount of work that she could accomplish in so short a time. She wisely refrained from installing herself at the desk that night, thinking that she could not do better in these first hours, while all was exciting and new in this plan of work, than get to bed as quickly as possible, and devote an hour or two to the evolving of a plot, and to the construction of her first story, before sleep should come upon her. So far from thinking it hard to conjure up matter upon which to base her tale, the difficulty seemed to lie in the fact that she must perforce write only one at a time, if she wished to be conscientious and systematic. All through the washing of her face and hands, and the brushing of her hair, mechanically performed, her head was teeming with all manner of stirring incidents, which rose up in her imagination, refusing to be placed in any nice order of sequence; inconsistent with one another; contending together—obviously "copy" for many stories of widely different natures. "And then there is my style," the would-be authoress reflected, as she sank down at length among the pillows. "I wonder what my style will be: whether I have to find one—to settle upon one of many—or whether a particular one will come to me of itself." And this was as far as Hazel got that first night. *CHAPTER IX*