"But I have made my readjustments. I am humbled. I see how little value verse-making holds to the real task of living, and I am a better woman for what I have been through. I have learned--almost losing my mind over the lesson," she interjected, with her own bright smile--"the value of the solid virtues of life; and I've come to the conclusion that it is harder to be a gentleman than a genius. God makes one, but a man has the handling of the other upon himself. Danvers Carmichael," she continued, looking up at me, "is a gentleman. His word is his bond. He considers others, respects woman and honors her; controls his nature, and has a code of conduct which he would rather die than break. Ah!" she said, "I have had a bitter time; but it's taught me to appreciate that in the real things of life--the things for which we are here, love, home, and the rearing of children--genius has about as much part as the royal Bengal tiger. It's beautiful to look at, but dangerous to trifle with, and,"--here she smiled at her own earnestness for a second as she started up the stairs--"and here endeth the first lesson, my Lord of Stair!" I was in no way sorry as to her conclusions about the value of verse-making, for I had seen that her continual mental excitement was sapping her vitality; and I closed my eyes to sleep that night with a feeling of gratitude to my Heavenly Father that the Burns business was by with forever. * * * * * Toward noon of the next day I discovered my mistake. Smoking by the fire in the chimney corner of the hall, I heard a clattering of horses' hoofs on the gravel outside, and from the window saw Danvers Carmichael throw the reins to his groom, run up the steps of the main entrance, and ask for Miss Stair in a voice strangely unlike his usual one. I knew that Nancy was sitting with some lace-work in her own writing-room, and hoped much from their meeting, and that her recent experience, which made her set a new value on Danvers, would bring about a more complete understanding between them. "Ah, Dandy!" said Nancy, her voice having a ring of pleasure in it. "When did you return from Glasgow?" "Late yesterday," he answered. "I dined at the club in town and rode home about ten. I'm thinking of leaving Arran for a time," he said, coldly. "Why didn't you stop?" she asked, with some surprise. "I was in no mood for visiting last night." "You were ill, or worried?" Nancy inquired anxiously. "Worried, ill," he answered. "Ill, and ashamed, and miserable, in a way, please God, most men may never know." "What is it, Dandy?" and I saw that at his vehemence she put her work on the table and moved toward him.