"Well, Jamie Macleod," I exclaimed, half impatiently, "for lack of originality, commend me to you to-night!" I was afraid I should not hear the story. I exulted in the thought that my intuition concerning a second R. L. Stevenson in Jamie Macleod, was to prove correct. Jamie looked over at me and smiled provokingly. "Come on, Boy, out with it!" said the Doctor encouragingly. "I 'm willing to be bored with your literary style for the sake of hearing dear old André's story rehashed by a young aspirant for honors." "Have you seen anything of this?" Mr. Ewart turned to Mrs. Macleod. "I 've neither seen nor heard anything of this kind," she replied with an amazed look at her son. Jamie smiled again, this time quizzically. "What's this you 've been keeping from your mother, Boy?" "Oh, Jamie, do read it to us!" I begged. Jamie laughed aloud then, much to the two men's delight, as I could see, and said--tease that he is: "I 've been waiting for Marcia to ask me; she is n't apt to ask favors of any one; but I say,--" he looked half shamefacedly at his friends,--"it's rough on me to read anything of mine before such critics as you and Gordon, Doctor Rugvie." "Do you good," growled the Doctor; "get you used to publicity. If we have a genius in the family, it's best he should sprout his pin feathers in our presence before he becomes a full-fledged Pegasus. We could n't hold you down then, you know." "You 've had a lot of faith in me, Doctor--you and Ewart; after all, Oxford mightn't have done what that has for me. I 'll read it--but I shall feel like a fool, I know." "It won't hurt you to feel that way once in a while at twenty-three; it's educative," said the Doctor dryly. In the general laughter that followed, Jamie left the room. He was gone but a minute. When he came in, I saw he was nervous. He cleared his throat once or twice, after taking his seat at the left of the fireplace, and glanced anxiously at the candles; but they were fresh at nine, and good for two hours longer. Doctor Rugvie looked at his watch. "Half-past ten; I 'll keep time, Jamie." "What do you call it, Jamie?" Mr. Ewart asked, to ease the evident embarrassment in which the young Scotsman found himself. "'André's Odyssey'." "Good! I like that," said the Doctor; "that's just what it was. Nothing like a good title to work up to." "Of course, I embellished a little here and there, but I stuck to the facts and in many places to André's words; and I tried to make the whole in André's spirit." "Intentions all right, Boy--let us judge of the result," said the Doctor. He settled comfortably in his chair, leaned his head on the back and gazed steadily at the wooden ceiling; but I think he managed to keep an eye on Jamie.