rd day found Warrington in the baggage-car,
feeding a dilapidated feather-molting bird, who was in a most
scandalous temper. Rajah scattered the seeds about, spurned the
banana-tip, tilted the water-cup and swashbuckled generally. By and
by, above the clack-clack of wheels and rails, came a crooning song.
The baggage-man looked up from his way-book and lowered his pipe. He
saw the little green bird pause and begin to keep time with its head.
It was the Urdu lullaby James used to sing. It never failed to quiet
the little parrot. Warrington went back to his Pullman, where the
porter greeted him with the information that the next stop would be
his. Ten minutes later he stepped from the train, a small kit-bag in
one hand and the parrot-cage in the other.

He had come prepared for mistake on the part of the natives. The
single smart cabman lifted his hat, jumped down from the box, and
opened the door. Warrington entered without speaking. The door
closed, and the coupe rolled away briskly. He was perfectly sure of
his destination. The cabman had mistaken him for Arthur. It would be
better so. There would be no after complications when he departed on
the morrow. As the coupe took a turn, he looked out of the window.
They were entering a driveway, lined on each side of which were
chestnuts. Indeed, the house was set in the center of a grove of these
splendid trees. The coupe stopped.

"Wait," said Warrington, alighting.

"Yes, sir."

Warrington went up the broad veranda steps and pulled the old-fashioned
bell-cord. He was rather amazed at his utter lack of agitation. He
was as calm as if he were making a call upon a casual acquaintance.
His mother and brother, whom he had not seen in ten years! The great
oak-door drew in, and he entered unceremoniously.

"Why, Marse A'thuh, I di'n't see yo' go out!" exclaimed the old negro
servant.

"I am not Arthur; I am his brother Paul. Which door?"

Pop-eyed, the old negro pointed to a door down the hall. Then he
leaned against the banister and caught desperately at the spindles.
For the voice was not Arthur's.

Warrington opened the door, closed it gently and stood with his back to
it. At a desk in the middle of the room sat a man, busy with books.
He raised his head.

"Arthur, don't you know me?"

"Paul?"

The chair overturned; some books thudded dully upon the rug. Arthur
leaned with his hands tense upon the desk. Paul sustained the look,
his eyes