rie brimmed with her. Yet somehow also there came to him other
things, unsought, and floated about him, and became more fully part of
him than they had ever been before. It was an incongruous assortment;
some of the knights of Sir Malory; the River above the booms, with the
brown logs; a plume of white steam against the dazzling blue sky; the
mellow six-o'clock church bell to which he arose every morning; the
snake-fence by the sandhill as it was in winter, with the wreaths of
snow; and all through everything the feel of the woods he had seen at
the picnic, their canopy of green so far above, their splashes of
sunlight through the rifts, the friendly summer warmth of their air,
their hot, spicy wood-smells wandering to and fro; their tall trunks,
their undergrowth, with the green tunnels far through them, the flashes
of their birds' wings, their green transparent shadows. These came to
him, vaguely, and their existence seemed explained. They were because
Celia was. And so, in the musty loft of an ill-kept stable, Bobby
entered another portion of the beautiful heritage that was some day to
be his.

IV

THE PRINTING PRESS

Next week was Bobby's birthday. He received many gifts, but as usual,
saved the biggest package until the last. It had come wrapped in stout
manila paper, tied with a heavy cord, and ornamented with the red
sticker and seals of the Express Company. With some importance Bobby
opened his new knife and cut the string. The removal of the wrapper
disclosed a light wooden box. This was filled with excelsior, which in
turn enclosed a paper parcel. A card read:

"For Bobby on his eleventh birthday, from Grandpa and Grandma."

Wrought to trembling eagerness by the continued delays, Bobby tore off
the paper. Within was a small toy cast-iron printing press. Its
ink-plate was flat and stationary. Its chase held two wooden grooves
into which the type could be clamped by means of end screws. The
mechanism was worked by a small square lever at the back. Bobby opened
a red pasteboard box to discover a miniature font of Old English type; a
round tin box to uncover sticky but delicious-smelling printer's ink; a
package to reveal the ink-roller and a parcel to complete the outfit
with a pack of cheap pasteboard cards.

"What do you think of that?" cried Mrs. Orde.

"Now you'll be able to go into business, won't you?" said his father.
"You might make me twenty-five calling cards for a starter."

Immediate