t to soothe it. Before she asked the
question of a man coming to the spring with a pail in his hand, she
knew the answer. It was Peter Morrison's house. Marian sprang across the
brook, climbed to the temporary roadway, and walked down in front of the
building. She stood looking at it intently. It was in a rough stage, but
much disguise is needed to prevent a mother from knowing her own child.
Marian's dark eyes began to widen and to blaze. She walked up to the
front of the house and found that rough flooring had been laid so that
she could go over the first floor. When she had done this she left the
back door a deeply indignant woman.

"There is some connection," she told herself tersely, "between my lost
sketch and this house, which is merely a left-to-right rehearsal of
my plans; and it's the same plan with which Henry Anderson won the
Nicholson and Snow prize money and the still more valuable honor of
being the prize winner. What I want to know is how such a wrong may be
righted, and what Peter Morrison has to do with it."

Stepping from the back door, Marian followed the well-worn pathway
that led to the garage, looking right and left for Peter, and she was
wondering what she would say to him if she met him. She was thinking
that perhaps she had better return to San Francisco and talk the matter
over with Mr. Snow before she said anything to anyone else; by this time
she had reached the garage and stood in its wide-open door. She looked
in at the cot, left just as someone had arisen from it, at the row of
clothing hanging on a rough wooden rack at the back, at the piled boxes,
at the big table, knocked together from rough lumber, in the center,
scattered and piled with books and magazines; and then her eyes fixed
intently on a packet lying on the table beside a typewriter and a stack
of paper and envelopes. She walked over and picked up the packet. As she
had known the instant she saw them, they were her letters. She stood
an instant holding them in her hand, a dazed expression on her face.
Mechanically she reached out and laid her hands on the closed typewriter
to steady herself. Something about it appealed to her as familiar.
She looked at it closely, then she lifted the cover and examined the
machine. It was the same machine that had stood for years in Doctor
Strong's library, a machine upon which she had typed business letters
for her own father, and sometimes she had copied lectures and book
manuscript on it f