"It must be rich, indeed, if richer than this poet's.

He's a good lad, and his part in life will have a fine rounding out." Victor passed into the cabin and seated himself at the table in the main cabin.

Occasionally he would nod approvingly, or rumple the feathery end of the quill between his teeth, or drum with his fingers in the effort to prove a verse whose metrical evenness did not quite satisfy his ear.

There were obstacles, however, which marred the sureness of his inspiration.

First it was the face of madame as he had seen it, now here, now there, in sunshine, in cloud.