but Henry Lord, Ph.D., had his
assailable side nevertheless, and he felt extraordinarily good natured,
almost as if the third volume were finished, with public and publishers
clamoring for its appearance.

"I don't know where Olive could have got any such talent as you
describe," he said, as they were walking along the lane. "She had some
lessons long ago, I remember, and her mother used to talk of her amusing
herself with pencil and paint, but I have heard nothing of it
for years."

"Ask to see her sketches when you are talking with her about her work
some day," suggested Mother Carey. (Stab seven.) "As a matter of fact
she probably gets her talent from you."

"From me!" Printed letters fail to register the amazement in Professor
Lord's tone.

"Why not, when you consider her specialty?"

"_What_ specialty?"

Really, a slender sword was of no use with this man; a bludgeon was the
only instrument, yet it might wound, and she only wanted to prick. Had
the creature never seen Olive sketching, nor noted her choice
of subjects?

"She paints animals; paints nothing else, if she can help it; though she
does fairly well with other things. Is it impossible that your study of
zoology--your thought, your absorption for years and years, in the
classification, the structure, the habits of animals--may have been
stamped on your child's mind? She has an ardor equal to your own, only
showing itself in a different manner. You may have passed on, in some
mysterious way, your knowledge to Olive. She may have unconsciously
blended it with some instinct for expression of her own, and it comes
out in pictures. Look at this, Professor Lord. Olive gave it to
me to-day."

They stood together at the gate leading out into the road, and Mrs.
Carey unwrapped the painting and poised it against the top of the gate.

Olive's father looked at it for a moment and then said, "I am no judge
of these things, technically or otherwise, but it certainly seems very
creditable work for a girl of Olive's age."

"Oh, it is surely more than that! My girl Nancy stands there in the
flesh, though her face is hidden. Look at the wind blowing, look at the
delightful, the enchanting calf; above all look at the title! Who in the
world but a little genius could have composed that sketch, breathing
youth in every inch of it,--and called it 'Young April'! Oh! Professor
Lord, I am very bold, because your wife is not living, and it is women
who oftenest see thes