Because, as it happens, the only record of the period is there--a record so significant that fifty years can be reconstructed, as an entire language was brought to light by a triple inscription upon a single stone. Thrown like the shell upon Time's ever-receding shore, it is, nevertheless, the means by which unborn thousands shall commune with him who wrote in his garret, see his whole life mirrored in his book, know his philosophy, and take home his truth. For by way of the printed page comes Immortality. There was no book in the library which had not been read many times. Some were falling apart, and others had been carefully sewn together and awkwardly rebound. Still open, on a rickety table in the corner, was that ponderous volume with an extremely limited circulation: _The Publishers' Trade List Annual_. Pencilled crosses here and there indicated books to be purchased, or at least sent on approval, to "customers known to the House." "Some day," said Dorothy, "when it's raining and we can't go out, we'll take down all these books, arrange them in something like order, and catalogue them." "How optimistic you are!" remarked Harlan. "Do you think it could be done in one day?" "Oh, well," returned Dorothy; "you know what I mean." Harlan paced restlessly back and forth, pausing now and then to look out of the window, where nothing much was to be seen except the orchard, at a little distance from the house, and Claudius Tiberius, sunning himself pleasantly upon the porch. Four weeks had been a pleasant vacation, but two weeks of comparative idleness, added to it, were too much for an active mind and body to endure. Three or four times he had tried to begin the book that was to bring fame and fortune, and as many times had failed. Hitherto Harlan's work had not been obliged to wait for inspiration, and it was not so easy as it had seemed the day he bade his managing editor farewell. "Somebody is coming," announced Dorothy, from the window. "Nonsense! Nobody ever comes here." "A precedent is about to be established, then. I feel it in my bones that we're going to have company." "Let's see." Harlan went to the window and looked over her shoulder. A little man in a huge silk hat was toiling up the hill, aided by a cane. He was bent and old, yet he moved with a certain briskness, and, as Dorothy had said, he was inevitably coming. "Who in thunder--" began Harlan. "Our first company," interrupted Dorothy, with her hand over his mouth. "The very first person who has called on us since we were married!" "Except Claudius Tiberius," amended Harlan. "Isn't a cat anybody?" "Claudius is. I beg his imperial pardon for forgetting him." The rusty bell-wire creaked, then a timid ring came from the rear depths of the house. "You let him in," said Dorothy, "and I'll go and fix my hair." "Am I right," queried the old gentleman, when Harlan opened the door, "in presuming that I am so fortunate as to address Mr. James Harlan Carr?"