months or so through failing an exam, didn't trouble me. But this is
different. I was right up against getting clear of all this"--he
comprehended garden and house in a sweep of the hand--"counted it a
dead certainty--and here I am pitched back again."

"But, George, you did work so hard this time. It isn't as though you
had to blame yourself." She put a clinging hand into his arm. "You can
suffer no--remorse. That is what makes failure so dreadful--the
knowledge that things might have been otherwise if one had liked."

George laughed quite gaily. Gloom never lay long upon this young man.

"You're a sweet little person," he said. "You ought to be right, but
you are wrong. When I didn't work I didn't mind failing. It's when
I've tried that I get sick."

Margaret's eyes brightened. There was melancholy here.

"Oh, I know what you mean. I know so well. I have felt that. You mean
the--the haunting fear that you may never be able to succeed; that you
have not the--the talent, the capacity." She continued pleadingly:
"Oh, you mustn't think that. You can--you _will_ succeed next time,
you know."

"Rather!" responded George brightly.

Margaret was quite pained. She would have had him express doubt,
despondently sigh; would have heartened him with her poem. The
confident "rather!" jarred. She hurried from its vigour.