Hermon Worcester was bitterly mortified that Emanuel had received no “call.” He had not said so, yet, but his nephew knew that this well-bred reserve had reached its last breath. As Bayard struck the light, he perceived the forgotten letter in his hand, and, perhaps thinking to defer a painful scene for a moment, said, “Your pardon, Uncle,” and tore the envelope. The letter contained a formal and unanimous call from the seaside parish whose vacant pulpit he had been supplying for six weeks to become their pastor. * * * * * “Helen! Helen!” The mild, cultivated whine of the Professor’s wife complained through the hot house. Helen ran in dutiful response. It was late, and the Anniversary guests had scattered to their rooms. The girl was partly undressed for the night, and stood in her doorway gathering her cashmere wrapper about her tall, rich form. Mrs. Carruth looked through the half-open door of her own room. “I cannot get your father out of his study, Helen,” she urged plaintively. “He has one of his headaches at the base of the brain--and those extra Faculty meetings before him this week, with all the rest. Do go down and see if you can’t send him up to bed.” Helen buttoned her white gown to the throat, and ran softly downstairs to the study. The Professor of Theology sat at his study table with a knot between his eyes. A pile of catalogues lay before him; he was jotting down statistics with his gold pencil on old-fashioned foolscap paper. He pushed the paper aside when he saw his daughter, and held out his hand to her, smiling. She went straight to him as if she had been a little girl, and knelt beside him, crossing her hands on his knee. He put his arm around her; his stern face relaxed. “You are to put the entire system of Orthodox theology away and come to bed, Papa,” she said, with her sweet imperiousness. “Mother says you have a headache at the base of something. It is pretty late--and it worries her. What are you doing? Counting theologues? Counting theologues! At your time of life! As if you couldn’t find anything better to do! What is this?” She caught up a stray slip of paper. “‘Deaf--deaf as an adder: 10. Blind--stone-blind: 6.’ What in the name of--Anniversary week does _that_ mean?” “That is a personal memorandum,” said the Professor, flushing. “Tear it up, Helen.” “I know,” said Helen, nodding. “It’s a private classification of theologues. Which does it catalogue, their theology or their intellects? Come, Papa!” “I’ll never tell you!” laughed the Professor, shutting his thin, scholarly lips. And he never did. But the laugh had gained the point, as she intended. He took his German student lamp and started upstairs. Helen walked through the long, dim hall with her two hands clasped lovingly upon his arm.