I was quite a bit ruffled. “Indeed!” said I. “You are quite sure of that, are you?” “I am,” decidedly. “I have read 'The Queen's Amulet' and no queen on earth--in England, surely--ever acted or spoke like that one. An American queen might, if there was such a thing.” She laughed and, provoked as I was, I could not help laughing with her. She had a most infectious laugh. “My dear young lady--” I began again, but she interrupted me. “Don't call me that,” she protested. “You're not the Archbishop of Canterbury visiting a girl's school and making a speech. You asked me not to call you 'Uncle Hosea.' If you say 'dear young lady' to me again I shall address you publicly as 'dear old Nunky.' Don't be silly.” I laughed again. “But you ARE young,” I said. “Well, what of it. Perhaps neither of us likes to be reminded of our age. I'm sure you don't; I never saw anyone more sensitive on the subject. There! there! put away those silly old books and come down to the drawing-room. I'm going to sing. Mr. Worcester has brought in a lot of new music.” Reluctantly I closed the volume I had in my hand. “Very well,” I said; “I'll come if you wish. But I shall only be in the way, as I always am. Mr. Worcester didn't plead for my company, did he? Do you know I think he will bear up manfully if I don't appear.” She regarded me with disapproval. “Don't be childish in your old age,” she snapped, “Are you coming?” I went, of course, and--it may have been by way of reward--she sang several old-fashioned, simple ballads which I had found in a dog's-eared portfolio in the music cabinet and which I liked because my mother used to sing them when I was a little chap. I had asked for them before and she had ignored the request. This time she sang them and Hephzy, sitting beside me in the darkest corner reached over and laid a hand on mine. “Her mother all over again,” she whispered. “Ardelia used to sing those.” Next day, on the tennis court, she played with Herbert Bayliss against Worcester and me, and seemed to enjoy beating us six to one. The only regret she expressed was that she and her partner had not made it a “love set.” Altogether she was a decidedly vitalizing influence, an influence that was, I began to admit to myself, a good one for me. I needed to be kept alive and active, and here, in this wide-awake household, I couldn't be anything else. The future did not look as dull and hopeless as it had when I left Bayport. I even began to consider the possibilities of another novel, to hope that I might write one. Jim Campbell's “prescription,” although working in quite a different way from that which he and I had planned, was working nevertheless. Matthews, at the Camford Street office, was forwarding my letters and honoring my drafts with promptness. I received a note each week from Campbell. I had written him all particulars concerning Little Frank and our move to the rectory, and he professed to see in it only a huge joke.