There was a curious finality in her voice--calmness and finality. The old Captain was frowning, but Anthy held him close by the arm. A moment of silence followed. I suppose we must, indeed, have been an absurd group of men standing there helplessly, for Anthy surveyed us with a swift glance. "What _are_ you all so serious about?" she asked. While we were awkwardly bestirring ourselves, Anthy took off her hat, just as usual, put on her apron, just as usual. It was the natural-born genius of Anthy to have the orderly wheels of life running again. And presently, standing near the Captain's littered desk, she exclaimed: "At last, at last, Uncle Newt, you've written your editorial on Roosevelt!" She picked up the manuscript. "Yes, Anthy," rumbled the Captain, "I have written my convictions about the Colonel. It was a duty I had." The Captain was not yet placated, but there was no resisting Anthy very long. "David will never be satisfied until he hears it," she said. She looked over the pages. "Have you said _exactly_ what you think, Uncle?" "Exactly," said the Captain; "I could not do less. But I wanted Nort to hear it." "Well, where is Mr. Carr?" asked Anthy, looking about in surprise. For a moment no one said a word. And then Ed Smith spoke: "We've simply got to cut down expenses. I hired Carr when I thought we needed a cheap man to help Fergus--and now I've let him go." For a moment Anthy stood silent, and just a little rigid, I thought. But it was only for a moment. "We were going to have Uncle's editorial, weren't we? Mr. Carr can see it later." She was now in complete command. She got the Captain down into his chair and put the manuscript in his hand. He cleared his throat, threw back his head, pleased in spite of himself. "It was a hard duty, but here it is," he said, and began reading in a resonant voice: "We have hesitated long and considered deeply before expressing the views of the _Star_ upon the recent sad apostasy of Theodore Roosevelt. We loved him like a son. We gloried in him as in an older brother. We followed that bright figure (in a manner of speaking) when he fought on the bloody slopes of San Juan, we were with him when he marched homeward in his hour of triumph to the plaudits of a grateful nation----" The Captain narrated vividly how the _Star_ had stood staunchly with that peerless leader through every campaign. And then his voice changed suddenly, he drew a deep breath. "But we are with him no longer. We know him now no more----" He mourned him as a son gone astray, as a follower after vain gods. I remember just how Nort looked when he read this part of the editorial some time afterward, glancing up quickly. "Isn't it great! Doesn't it make you think of old King David: 'Oh, my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom!'"