odden corners, could Peter recollect the rainbow
floor his feet had pressed when he was twenty-one. The noble bookcase,
surmounted by Minerva's bust. Really it was too expensive. But the
nodding curls had been so obstinate. Peter's silly books and papers must
be put away in order; the curls did not intend to permit any excuse for
untidiness. So, too, the handsome, brass-bound desk; it must be worthy
of the beautiful thoughts Peter would pen upon it. The great sideboard,
supported by two such angry-looking mahogany lions; it must be strong to
support the weight of silver clever Peter would one day purchase to place
upon it. The few oil paintings in their heavy frames. A solidly
furnished, sober apartment; about it that subtle atmosphere of dignity
one finds but in old rooms long undisturbed, where one seems to read upon
the walls: "I, Joy and Sorrow, twain in one, have dwelt here." One item
only there was that seemed out of place among its grave surroundings--a
guitar, hanging from the wall, ornamented with a ridiculous blue bow,
somewhat faded.

"Mr. William Clodd?" demanded the decided voice.

Clodd started and closed the door.

"Guessed it in once," admitted Mr. Clodd.

"I thought so," said the decided voice. "We got your note this
afternoon. Mr. Hope will be back at eight. Will you kindly hang up your
hat and coat in the hall? You will find a box of cigars on the
mantelpiece. Excuse my being busy. I must finish this, then I'll talk
to you."

The owner of the decided voice went on writing. Clodd, having done as he
was bid, sat himself in the easy-chair before the fire and smoked. Of
the person behind the desk Mr. Clodd could see but the head and
shoulders. It had black, curly hair, cut short. It's only garment
visible below the white collar and red tie might have been a boy's jacket
designed more like a girl's, or a girl's designed more like a boy's;
partaking of the genius of English statesmanship, it appeared to be a
compromise. Mr. Clodd remarked the long, drooping lashes over the
bright, black eyes.

"It's a girl," said Mr. Clodd to himself; "rather a pretty girl."

Mr. Clodd, continuing downward, arrived at the nose.

"No," said Mr. Clodd to himself, "it's a boy--a cheeky young beggar, I
should say."

The person at the desk, giving a grunt of satisfaction, gathered together
sheets of manuscript and arranged them; then, resting its elbows on the
desk and taking its head between its h