The thought in her mind was too daring for utterance. She was picturing the possibility of going quietly away from Briar Farm all alone, and trying to make a name and career for herself through the one natural gift she fancied she might possess, a gift which nowadays is considered almost as common as it was once admired and rare. To be a poet and romancist,--a weaver of wonderful thoughts into musical language,--this seemed to her the highest of all attainment; the proudest emperor of the most powerful nation on earth was, to her mind, far less than Shakespeare,--and inferior to the simplest French lyrist of old time that ever wrote a "chanson d'amour." But the doubt in her mind was whether she, personally, had any thoughts worth expressing,--any ideas which the world might be the happier or the better for knowing and sharing? She drew a long breath,--the warm colour flushed her cheeks and then faded, leaving her very pale,--the whole outlook of her life was so barren of hope or promise that she dared not indulge in any dream of brighter days. On the face of it, there seemed no possible chance of leaving Briar Farm without some outside assistance--she had no money, and no means of obtaining any. Then,--even supposing she could get to London, she knew no one there,--she had no friends. Sighing wearily, she opened a deep drawer in the table at which she sat, and took out a manuscript--every page of it so neatly written as to be almost like copper-plate--and set herself to reading it steadily. There were enough written sheets to make a good-sized printed volume--and she read on for more than an hour. When she lifted her eyes at last they were eager and luminous. "Perhaps," she half whispered--"perhaps there is something in it after all!--something just a little new and out of the ordinary--but--how shall I ever know!" Putting the manuscript by with a lingering care, she went to the window and looked out. The peaceful scene was dear and familiar--and she already felt a premonition of the pain she would have to endure in leaving so sweet and safe a home. Her thoughts gradually recurred to the old trouble--Robin, and Robin's love for her,--Robin, who, if she married him, would spend his life gladly in the effort to make her happy,--where in the wide world would she find a better, truer-hearted man? And yet--a curious reluctance had held her back from him, even when she had believed herself to be the actual daughter of Hugo Jocelyn,--and now--now, when she knew she was nothing but a stray foundling, deserted by her own parents and left to the care of strangers, she considered it would be nothing short of shame and disgrace to him, were she to become his wife.