About the middle of the afternoon it occurred to me to try to find a key for the lock of the bath-house. I therefore left my studio and proceeded to the house. I passed close by the fatal building, but there was no sound from it. I found a number of trunk-keys in a drawer in the library, and was about to escape with them, when father came in. He gave me a long look, and said: "Bee still buzzing?" I had hoped for some understanding from him, but my spirits fell at this speech. "I am still working, father," I said, in a firm if nervous tone. "I am not doing as good work as I would if things were different, but--I am at least content, if not happy." He stared at me, and then came over to me. "Put out your tongue," he said. Even against this crowning infamy I was silent. "That's all right," he said. "Now see here, Chicken, get into your riding togs and we'll order the horses. I don't intend to let this play-acting upset your health." But I refused. "Unless, of course, you insist," I finished. He only shook his head, however, and left the room. I felt that I had lost my last friend. I did not try the keys myself, but instead stood off a short distance and threw them through the window. I learned later that they struck Mr. Beecher on the head. Not knowing, of course, that I had flung them, and that my reason was pure friendliness and idealism, he threw them out again with a violent exclamation. They fell at my feet, and lay there, useless, rejected, tragic. At last I summoned courage to speak. "Can't I do something to help?" I said, in a quaking voice, to the window. There was no answer, but I could hear a pen scratching on paper. "I do so want to help you," I said, in a louder tone. "Go, away" said his voice, rather abstracted than angry. "May I try the keys?" I asked. Be still, my heart! For the scratching had ceased. "Who's that?" asked the beloved voice. I say 'beloved' because an ideal is always beloved. The voice was beloved, but sharp. "It's me." I heard him mutter something, and I think he came to the door. "Look here," he said. "Go away. Do you understand? I want to work. And don't come near here again until seven o'clock." "Very well," I said faintly. "And then come without fail," he said. "Yes, Mr. Beecher," I replied. How commanding he was! Strong but tender! "And if anyone comes around making a noise, before that, you shoot them for me, will you?" "SHOOT them?" "Drive them off, or use a bean-shooter. Anything. But don't yell at them. It distracts me." It was a sacred trust. I, and only I, stood between him and his MAGNUM OPUS. I sat down on the steps of our bath-house, and took up my vigil.