It was characteristic of Anthy that when she put down the telephone receiver she was laughing. The tone of the Captain's voice and the picture she had of him, dramatically discharging Ed, were irresistible. But it was only for a moment, and the old problem of the _Star_ leaped at her again. In the letters to Lincoln here in my desk I find that she referred to it repeatedly: "Ed Smith will not get on much longer with our vagabond, who isn't _really_ a vagabond at all; and as for Uncle Newt, it seems to me that he grows more difficult every day. What _shall_ I do?" Now that the crisis was here, she was very quiet about it. When she had put on her hat she stepped for a moment into the quiet, old-fashioned living-room, where her desk was, and the fireplace before which she and her father had sat together for so many, many evenings, and the picture of Lincoln over the mantel. She had not changed it in the least particular since her father's death, and it had always a soothing effect upon her: the picture of her mother, the familiar, well-thumbed books which her father had delighted in, the very chair where he loved to sit. She did not feel bold or confident, but the moment in the old room gave her a curious sense of calmness, as though there were something strong and sure back of her. She glanced up quickly at the countenance of Mr. Lincoln, and turned and went out of the house. The explosion at the office had been followed by a dead calm. We were all awaiting the arrival of Anthy. After all, she was the owner of the _Star_. What would she do? I saw Ed Smith glancing surreptitiously out of the window, and even the old Captain, in spite of his jauntiness, seemed ill at ease. Only Fergus remained undisturbed. That Scotchman continued working steadily at the cases. "You took it coolly, Fergus," I said to him in a low voice. "Got to print a paper this week," he observed. I verily believe if we had all deserted our jobs Fergus would have brought out the _Star_ as usual on Wednesday, a little curtailed, perhaps, but on the dot. Anthy came in looking perfectly calm. Ed Smith jumped from his seat at once. "See here, Miss Doane," he began excitedly, "what right has the Captain to discharge me?" The old Captain had arisen, too, and very formidable he looked. But my eyes were on Anthy. She stepped over to her uncle's side. She had a deep affection for this old uncle of hers. "Look out for your Uncle Newt," her father had said in the letter she found after his death. She put her arm through his, drew him toward her, and looking up at him, smiled a little. "What right has the Captain to discharge me?" demanded Ed Smith. "No right at all," she said. "There!" exclaimed Ed, exultantly. "But I have the right," said Anthy, "if I choose to exert it."