Sprats read the poem that evening, and as she read she marvelled. Lucian had done himself justice at last. The poem was full of the true country life; there was no false ring in it; he had realised the pathos of the story he had to tell; it was a moving performance, full of the spirit of poetry from the first line to the last. She was proud, glad, full of satisfaction. Without waiting to ask Lucian’s permission, she placed the manuscript in the vicar’s hands and begged him to read it. He carried it away to his study; Sprats sat up later than usual to hear his verdict. She occupied herself with no work, but with thoughts that had a little of the day-dream glamour in them. She was trying to map out Lucian’s future for him. He ought to be protected and shielded from the world, wrapped in an environment that would help him to produce the best that was in him; the ordinary cares of life ought never to come near him. He had a gift, and the world would be the richer if the gift were poured out lavishly to his fellow-creatures; but he must be treated tenderly and skilfully if the gift was to be poured out at all. Sprats, country girl though she was, knew something of the harshnesses of life; she knew, too, that Lucian’s nature was the sort that would rebel at a crumpled rose-leaf. He was still, and always would be, a child that feels rather than understands. The vicar came back to her with the manuscript--it was then nearly midnight, but he was too much excited to wonder that Sprats should still be downstairs. He came tapping the manuscript with his fingers--his face wore a delighted and highly important expression. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘this is a considerable performance. I am amazed, pleased, gratified, proud. The boy is a genius--he will make a great name for himself. Yes--it is good. It is sound work. It is so charmingly free from mere rhetoric--there is a restraint, a chasteness which one does not often find in the work of a young writer. And it is classical in form and style. I am proud of Lucian. You see now the result of only reading and studying the best masters. He is perhaps a little imitative--that is natural; it will wear away. Did you not notice a touch of Wordsworth, eh!--I was reminded of _Michael_. He will be a new Wordsworth--a Wordsworth with more passion and richer imagery. He has the true eye for nature--I do not know when I have been so pleased as with the bits of colour that I find here. Oh, it is certainly a remarkable performance.’ ‘Father,’ said Sprats, ‘don’t you think it might be published?’ Mr. Chilverstone considered the proposition gravely.