“Really, I did not know that brothers ever made such charming speeches to their sisters. I know Emmie’s brothers were never very gallant to her. Come, I think I shall have a very agreeable brother, after all.” But aloud she only said, gratefully: “How kind you are to me! I wish I knew how to repay you, Mr. de Vere.” Then after a moment, looking up at him eagerly, though shyly, she abruptly said: “Will you tell me which you admire the more in woman--beauty or intellect?” “What a strange question from a little girl like you!” he said, looking at her in surprise. “Do you think so?” she flushed warmly. “Why, we used to discuss that question in Virginia--the boys and girls I knew.” “And what did Frank and Tom say?” “They preferred beauty,” she replied, in a low voice. “As for me,” Norman said, riding close to her side, “I should prefer a combination of both.” He was eagerly watching the lovely face where the beautiful flickering color came and went so rapidly under the trying sunlight of the clear, bright day. He fancied that a shade of disappointment came into the clear, blue eyes. “I thought you would think so,” she said, timidly. “Naturally,” he replied. “Why, Sweetheart, what would beauty be without mind? A lamp without a flame, a rose without fragrance.” She turned to him a grave, almost sad face. “But the boys used to say that brains and beauty were but seldom united,” she ventured. “You should not have listened,” he replied, warmly. “It was a libel upon beauty. Where could one find a fairer face than yours, Sweetheart? Yet you are most fairly gifted in mind. You have talent. Your musical abilities are of a high order, and you told me, if you remember,” mischievously, “that you had a talent for millinery.” “Miss Barnes, the lady I worked for at Louisa, said so,” eagerly. “But of course that is not exactly intellect. It was intellect we were talking of, you know.” “Yes,” smilingly. She rode on silently awhile, giving all her attention to the cream-white pony which was as sweetly docile as could be desired for a new beginner. They were outside the city now, going along a country-road luxuriant with the tropic vegetation of the South. Norman de Vere, watching the thoughtful face eagerly, fancied that some struggle was going on in her mind between timidity and doubt. “What is it you wish to ask me, Sweetheart?” kindly. “Oh! how did you know? Does my face tell secrets like that?” She looked surprised, rueful, then burst out: “Well, it was only this: Do you think verse-writing a sign of intellect?” “Do you write verse, little sister?” laughingly. “Answer me first,” she returned, saucily. “Well, then, I can not say positively. I have read verse that was not poetry--nothing but laboriously constructed rhyme, with not a pretty conceit or fancy to pay one for reading it.” “I dare say that is my kind of verse,” despondently. “So you do write poetry?” eagerly, amusedly.