From others the Listers had comments in plenty. "To the relatives of Basil Everman, Waltonville, Pennsylvania," had come to be a familiar address to the postmaster. Editors wrote asking whether there had not been preserved other compositions of Basil Everman. They would welcome even fragmentary notes. Could not anything be found by searching? Dr. Lister went to the attic and opened the little trunk and took the Euripides and the Æschylus down to his study. He laid his hand for an instant on the upper drawer of the old bureau where Basil's clothes were packed, but did not open it. These clothes should long, long ago have been given away or burned. A few old friends wrote to Dr. Scott for information about his distinguished fellow citizen. The story was to be followed in "Willard's" by "Roses of Pæstum" and "Storm." It promised to be fashionable to reprint old material. Dr. Lister heard nothing from Mr. Utterly, but imagined him swelling with pride and heard his sharp, high voice going on interminably about the rights of the public in all the details of an author's life. Richard sat about quietly, holding a book in his hand, but not reading. His first experience with pain appalled him. So this was the world, was it? this was life? Was this dull shade the real color of the sky, this heavy vapor the atmosphere? He could not reconcile so malevolent a trick of fate with any conception of benevolence. Presently he began to resent his misery. He had done nothing to deserve this pain. To his side, as he sat in Dr. Lister's study or on the porch, his mother made frequent journeys. "Dinner-time, Richard," said Mary Alcestis gently. "Fried chicken, Richard," she would add hopefully. Or, "'Manda has just finished baking, Richard. Would you like a little cake? It would please 'Manda, Richard." Or--now Mrs. Lister's heart throbbed with hope--"Would you like to have the piano tuned, Richard?" To all these suggestions he returned a polite, "No, I thank you, mother." No tuning or feeding could help either the piano or Richard now. Once he turned upon his mother with a question. "Mother, do you mean to say that during all these years, you and Mrs. Bent have never exchanged a word about--this matter?" "She came up to me once on the street with her little girl," confessed Mrs. Lister tremulously. "But of course I couldn't talk to her there--or anywhere!" "What did she say?" "She said she wanted to talk to me about Basil." Finally Mrs. Lister yielded her citadel. "Richard, your father and I have been talking about music. We think that when you get your clavier with your Commencement money, we had better get a piano also. Father thinks I should go with you to Baltimore and that it would be well to ask Thomasina to go too. You could have it to practice on now, and then it would be here when you came from--from New York, Richard." Richard made no answer. "Would you like that, dear?"