He blushed quite boyishly. It is a curious fact that people are often more avid of praise for the thing they cannot do, than for the thing they can. Channing, who had met with no small success as a novelist, secretly yearned to win impossible laurels as a composer of parlor music. "Talents usually go in pairs," he said modestly. She commanded an instant performance, which he refused, explaining that his songs were never written for men's voices. "They have no thrill, no appeal. Who wants to hear a bull bellowing?" "Or a cow lowing, for that matter?" she laughed. "But that is very different. A cow lowing makes one think of twilight and the home pastures, of little stumbling, nosing calves, of the loveliest thing in life, maternity--" She smiled, drawing the sleeping Kitty close. "You can say things like that, and yet you wonder why I want to keep this baby! You're a fraud, Mr. Channing!" "A poet--The same thing," he murmured cynically. "We wear our sentiments on our sleeves for publishers to peck at." (he made a mental note of this epigram for future use.) "I've an idea! Suppose you run home with me now and try over some of my songs, will you? There's a lot of stuff that might interest you. I've got one of Farwell's machines down in the road." "Go over to Holiday Hill in an automobile?" Her eyes sparkled. "But could I take the baby?" His face fell. "Why--er--won't it have to be fed or something? I'm afraid Farwell's bachelor establishment, complete as it is, offers no facilities for the feeding of infants." "Oh, it's a bottle baby," she said casually. "But perhaps you're right--I'll take her up to the house.--No, if I do that, Jemmy'll want to know where I'm going, and stop me." "Don't tell her." "You don't know Jemmy!--I have it. Lige shall come and get the baby." Cupping her hands about her mouth she let out a peculiar, clear yodel that promptly brought an answering call from the top of the ravine. In response to Jacqueline's peremptory, "Come here!" her faithful lieutenant descended with manifest reluctance. Ten yards from the cabin he halted. "I dassent come no furder, Miss Jacky, not for nobody," he pleaded. "Don't be a coward! The ha'nts won't hurt you. I come here every day, and they never hurt me." "No 'm, reck'n dey knows dere place--Dey's culled ha'nts," explained Lige, and stayed where he was. But as Jacqueline put the child in his arms, he suddenly let out a frightened yell. "I sees smoke--oh, my Lawd! I sees smoke an' fire an' brimstone comin' out'n dat cabin!" he gasped, and fled, clutching the placid Kitty. Jacqueline chuckled. "He saw the smoke from your cigarette," she explained to Channing. "Naturally he thought that it was a little manifestation from hell for his benefit. He's got religion, you see. So much the better. Now we'll never be disturbed here!" The "we" amused Channing. It was evident that he was expected to call again at the Ruin. CHAPTER XVIII