"Blair is sixteen," his mother said thoughtfully; "if he thinks
he is in love with Elizabeth, it will help to make a man of him.
Furthermore, I'd rather have him make love than make pictures;--
that is his last fancy," she said, frowning. "I don't know how he
comes by it. Of course, my husband did paint sometimes, I admit;
but he never wanted to make a business of it. He was no fool, I
can tell you, if he did make pictures!"

Robert Ferguson said dryly that he didn't think she need worry
about Blair. "He has neither industry nor humility," he said,
"and you can't be an artist without both of 'em. But as for this
love business, they are children!"

Mrs. Maitland was not listening. "To be in love will be steadying
him while he's at college. If he sticks to Elizabeth till he
graduates, I sha'n't object."

"I shall object."

But she did not notice his protest.

"She has more temper than is quite comfortable," she ruminated;
"but, after all, to a young man being engaged is like having a
dog; one dog does as well as another; one girl does as well as
another. And it isn't as if Blair had to consider whether his
wife would be a 'good manager,' as they say; he'll have enough to
waste, if he wants to. He'll have more than he knows what to do
with!" There was a little proud bridling of her head. She, who
had never wasted a cent in her life, had made it possible for her