s thought I could write a book if some one would give
me a good start."

"We're cornered," said Nan finally. "But we'll have to bribe her."

"I came by the office and found some more letters from magazines that
want short stories, serials, anything from the gifted author of 'The
Gray Knight of Picardy,'" said Kirkwood. "Why not enlarge the syndicate,
Nan, and let Phil in? But I've got to retire; I mustn't even be
suspected. This is serious. It would kill my prospects as a lawyer if it
got out on me that I dallied at literature. It's no joke that the law is
a jealous mistress. And now I have the biggest case I ever had; and
likely to be the most profitable. How do we come by these birds, Phil?"

"Fred Holton brought them in, daddy. You remember him; he was at the
party."

"Yes; I remember, Phil. He's Samuel's boy, who's gone to live on their
old farm."

Nan turned the talk away from the Holtons and they went into the
living-room where Kirkwood read some of the notices he had found in his
mail. He improvised a number of criticisms ridiculing the book
mercilessly and he abused the imaginary authors until, going too far,
Phil snatched away the clippings and convicted him of fraud. She
declared that he deserved a mussing and drove him to a corner to make
the threat good, and only relented when she had exacted a promise from
him never to leave her out again in any of his literary connivings with
Nan.

The wind whistled round the house, and drove the snow against the panes.
A snowstorm makes for intimacy, and the three sat by the grate cozily,
laughing and talking; it was chiefly books they discussed. This was the
first time Nan had ever shared a winter-night fireside with the
Kirkwoods, much as she saw of them. And Phil was aware of a fitness in
the ordering of the group before the glowing little grate. The very
books on the high shelves seemed to make a background for Nan. Nothing
could be more natural than that she should abide there forever. Phil
became so engrossed in her speculations that she dropped out of the
talk. Inevitably the vague shadow of the mother she had never known
stole into the picture. She recalled the incident of the broken negative
that had slipped from her father's fingers upon the floor of the
abandoned photograph gallery. Her young imagination was kindled, and her
sympathies went out to the man and woman who sat there before the little
grate, so clearly speaking the same language, so drawn tog