I can see Nort yet leaning against the imposing stone, one leg crossed over the other, his bare inky arms folded negligently, his thick hair tumbling about on his head--and amusement darkening in his eyes. Fergus was cocked up on a stool by the cases; the Captain, who had just finished an editorial further pulverizing the fragments of William J. Bryan, was leaning back in his chair comfortably smoking his pipe; and Anthy, having slipped off her apron, was preparing to go home for supper. [Illustration: "_Well!" exclaimed Nort, drawing a long breath, "I never imagined it would feel so good to be orfunts_"] "Well!" exclaimed Nort, drawing a long breath, "I never imagined it would feel so good to be orfunts." The laugh which followed this remark was as irresistible as it was spontaneous. It expressed exactly what we all felt. I glanced at Anthy. She evidently considered it her duty to frown upon such disloyalty, but couldn't. She was laughing, too. It seemed to break the tension and bring us all close together. It will be seen from this how Nort had been growing since he came with us, a mere vagabond, to help Fergus. He had become one of us. "Don't see how we're ever goin' to get out a paper," remarked Fergus. This bit of irony was lost on the old Captain. "Fudge!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Get out a paper! We were publishing the _Star_ in Hempfield before ever Ed Smith was born." "I'll tell you what, Cap'n--and Miss Doane," said Nort, "we ought to get out a paper this week that will show Ed a thing or two, stir things up a bit." I saw Anthy turn toward him with a curious live look in her eyes. Youth had spoken to youth. "We could do it!" she said, with unexpected energy. "We could just do it." Nort unfurled his legs and walked nervously down the office. "What would you put in her?" asked the practical Fergus. "Put in her!" exclaimed Nort. "What couldn't you put in her? Put some life in her, I say. Stir things up." "I have just written an editorial on William J. Bryan," remarked the Captain with deliberation. "My father always used to say," said Anthy, "that the little things of life are really the big things. I didn't used to think so; it used to hurt me to see him waste his life writing items about the visits of the Backuses--you know what visitors the Backuses are--and the big squashes raised by Jim Palmer, and the meetings of the Masons and the Odd Fellows; but I believe he was successful with the _Star_ because he packed it full of just such little personal news." "Your father," I said, "was interested in people, in everything they did. It was what he _was_." "I see that now," said Anthy. "And when you come to think of it," I said, "we are more interested in people we know than in people we don't know. We can't escape our own neighbourhoods--and most of us don't want to."