Amos Adams came in, with his old body bent, his hands behind him, his shapeless coat hanging loosely from his stooped shoulders, his little tri-colored button of the Loyal Legion in his coat lapel, being the only speck of color in his graying figure. He peered at Mr. Brotherton over his spectacles and said: "George--I'd like to look at Emerson's addresses--the Phi Beta Kappa Address particularly." He nosed up to the shelves and went peering along the books in sets. "Help yourself, Dad, help yourself--Glad you like Emerson--elegant piece of goods; wrapped one up last week and took it home myself--elegant piece of goods." "Yes," mused the reader, "here is what I want--I had a talk with Emerson last night. He's against the war; not that he is for Spain, of course, but Huxley," added Amos, as he turned the pages of his book, "rather thinks we should fight--believes war lies along the path of greatest resistance, and will lead to our greater destiny sooner." The old man sighed, and continued: "Poor Lincoln--I couldn't get him last night: they say he and Garrison were having a great row about the situation." The elder stroked his ragged beard meditatively. Finally he said: "George--did you ever hear our Kenyon play?" The big man nodded and went on with his work. "Well, sir," the elder reflected: "Now, it's queer about Kenyon. He's getting to be a wonder. I don't know--it all puzzles me." He rose, put back the book on its shelf. "Sometimes I believe I'm a fool--and sometimes things like this bother me. They say they are training Kenyon--on the other side! Of course he just has what music Laura and Mrs. Nesbit could give him; yet the other day, he got hold of a piano score of Schubert's Symphony in B flat and while he can't play it, he just sits and cries over it--it means so much to the little fellow." The gray head wagged and the clear, old, blue eyes looked out through the steel-rimmed glasses and he sighed: "He is going ahead, making up the most wonderful music--it seems to me, and writing it down when he can't play it--writing the whole score for it--and they tell me--" he explained deprecatingly, "my friends on the other side, that the child will make a name for himself." He paused and asked: "George--you're a hardheaded man--what do you think of it? You don't think I'm crazy, do you, George?" The younger man glanced up, caught the clear, kindly eye of Amos Adams looking questioningly down.