or of The Lances of Dawn was still looking at the statement of
its earnings.

"Approximately eighteen thousand sold at fifteen cents royalty," he
observed. "Humph! Well, I'll be hanged!"

"But you said it would be twenty-five cents, not fifteen," protested
Olive. "In your letter when the book was first talked about you said
so."

Albert smiled. "Did I?" he observed. "Well, I said a good many things
in those days, I'm afraid. Fifteen cents for a first book, especially a
book of verse, is fair enough, I guess. But eighteen thousand SOLD! That
is what gets me."

"You mean you think it ought to be a lot more. So do I, Albert, and so
does Rachel. Why, we like it a lot better than we do David Harum. That
was a nice book, but it wasn't lovely poetry like yours. And David
Harum sold a million. Why shouldn't yours sell as many? Only eighteen
thousand--why are you lookin' at me so funny?"

Her grandson rose to his feet. "Let's let well enough alone,
Grandmother," he said. "Eighteen thousand will do, thank you. I'm like
Grandfather, I'm wondering who on earth bought them."

Mrs. Snow was surprised and a little troubled.

"Why, Albert," she said, "you act kind of--kind of queer, seems to me.
You talk as if your poetry wasn't beautiful. You know it is. You used to
say it was, yourself."

He interrupted her. "Did I, Grandmother?" he said. "All right, then,
probably I did. Let's walk about the old place a little. I want to see
it all. By George, I've been dreaming about it long enough!"

There were callers that afternoon, friends among the townsfolk, and more
still after supper. It was late--late for South Harniss, that is--when
Albert, standing in the doorway of the bedroom he nor they had ever
expected he would occupy again, bade his grandparents good night. Olive
kissed him again and again and, speech failing her, hastened away down
the hall. Captain Zelotes shook his hand, opened his mouth to speak,
shut it again, repeated both operations, and at last with a brief,
"Well, good night, Al," hurried after his wife. Albert closed the door,
put his lamp upon the bureau, and sat down in the big rocker.

In a way the night was similar to that upon which he had first entered
that room. It had ceased raining, but the wind, as on that first night,
was howling and whining about the eaves, the shutters rattled and the
old house creaked and groaned rheumatically. It was not as cold as
on that occasion, though by no means warm. He r