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"Donal Grant, by George MacDonald"

I could well wish I had been born
in your humbler but in truth less contracted sphere. Certain r?les
are not open to you, to be sure; but your life in the open air,
following your sheep, and dreaming all things beautiful and grand in
the world beyond you, is entrancing. It is the life to make a poet!"
"Or a king!" thought Donal. "But the earl would have made a
discontented shepherd!"
The man who is not content where he is, would never have been
content somewhere else, though he might have complained less.
"Take another glass of wine, Mr. Grant," said his lordship, filling
his own from the other decanter. "Try this; I believe you will like
it better."
"In truth, my lord," answered Donal, "I have drunk so little wine
that I do not know one sort from another."
"You know whisky better, I daresay! Would you like some now? Touch
the bell behind you."
"No, thank you, my lord; I know as little about whisky: my mother
would never let us even taste it, and I have never tasted it."
"A new taste is a gain to the being."
"I suspect, however, a new appetite can only be a loss."
As he said this, Donal, half mechanically, filled a glass from the
decanter his host had pushed towards him.
"I should like you, though," resumed his lordship, after a short
pause, "to keep your eyes open to the fact that Davie must do
something for himself. You would then be able to let me know by and
by what you think him fit for!"
"I will with pleasure, my lord.


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