ering
those my friends and relations are responsible for--particularly my
relations. For example, if dear old Fred wants to throw himself away on
a farm, that's his trouble. I did all I could to save him. And when I
had done that, I had done my best, and I'm a busy man with troubles of
my own!"

Her reception of this was not wholly satisfactory. She made in fact no
reply at all.

"Excuse me," she said, hearing steps unmistakably; "I think maybe father
is on the floor above. If you will wait here, I'll run up and see."

He saw her erect for the first time as she passed him. Her apparent
languor as she swung in the old creaky chair had belied what was
evidently her more natural manner. The few steps necessary to carry her
from the desk to the door were taken lightly, with a long, free stride.
Captain Wilson, in apostrophizing her as the Diana of Main Street, had
paid no inappropriate tribute to Phil's graceful carriage. Holton rose
as she crossed the room, noting her brown cheek, the golden glint in her
hair, her finely modeled features, her clear brown eyes and their dark
lashes. His eyes still rested upon the door for a moment after it had
closed upon her. Then he struck the floor with his stick, and whistled
softly. "Lordy!" he ejaculated.

Phil accused herself of dullness in not having thought earlier of the
photograph gallery. Her father must have been conducting himself very
quietly there or she would have heard him before. It had been a bright
day and he had undoubtedly been taking advantage of the sun to do his
printing. She had always encouraged his experiments in photography,
which afforded him one of his few recreations. He owned a fine camera
and he gave to every detail of the photographer's art the care he
bestowed upon anything that deeply interested him. They had bound in
portfolios many of the views obtained in their adventures afield, and he
had won prizes at state and national exhibitions of camera societies.
Phil was relieved to know that he was developing these newest plates,
for now there would be no excuse for retaining the deserted gallery and
it could be turned over to Bernstein without further delay.

It had grown late, and even under the glazed roof she did not at once
make him out.

"Daddy!" she called softly.

She had broken in upon one of his deep reveries, and as she spoke he
started guiltily. The oblong of glass he had been holding, staring at in
the lessening light, fell with a cra