nothing much was to be seen except the orchard, at a
little distance from the house, and Claudius Tiberius, sunning himself
pleasantly upon the porch. Four weeks had been a pleasant vacation, but
two weeks of comparative idleness, added to it, were too much for an
active mind and body to endure. Three or four times he had tried to begin
the book that was to bring fame and fortune, and as many times had failed.
Hitherto Harlan's work had not been obliged to wait for inspiration, and
it was not so easy as it had seemed the day he bade his managing editor
farewell.

"Somebody is coming," announced Dorothy, from the window.

"Nonsense! Nobody ever comes here."

"A precedent is about to be established, then. I feel it in my bones that
we're going to have company."

"Let's see." Harlan went to the window and looked over her shoulder. A
little man in a huge silk hat was toiling up the hill, aided by a cane. He
was bent and old, yet he moved with a certain briskness, and, as Dorothy
had said, he was inevitably coming.

"Who in thunder--" began Harlan.

"Our first company," interrupted Dorothy, with her hand over his mouth.
"The very first person who has called on us since we were married!"

"Except Claudius Tiberius," amended Harlan. "Isn't a cat anybody?"

"Claudius is. I beg his imperial pardon for forgetting him."

The rusty bell-wire creaked, then a timid ring came from the rear depths
of the house. "You let him in," said Dorothy, "and I'll go and fix my
hair."

"Am I right," queried the old gentleman, when Harlan opened the door, "in
presuming that I am so fortunate as to address Mr. James Harlan Carr?"

"My name is Carr," answered Harlan, politely. "Will you come in?"

"Thank you," answered the visitor, in high staccato, oblivious of the fact
that Claudius Tiberius had scooted in between his feet; "it will be my
pleasure to claim your hospitality for a few brief moments.

"I had hoped," he went on, as Harlan ushered him into the parlour, "to be
able to make your acquaintance before this, but my multitudinous
duties----"

He fumbled in his pocket and produced a card, cut somewhat irregularly
from a sheet of white cardboard, and bearing in tremulous autographic
script: "Jeremiah Bradford, Counsellor at Law."

"Oh," said Harlan, "it was you who wrote me the letter. I should have
hunted you up when I first came, shouldn't I?"

"Not at all," returned Mr. Bradford. "It is I who have been remiss. It is
etiquet