After all, there are compensations in the possession of a pointed face, decorated with big dark eyes, and a delightful mouth. My nose has never pleased me; but always, when I am gloomiest, my hair affords me consolation. Sarah makes a household pet of it, and cares for it devotedly. There's heaps of it. So much, that it makes my head ache to wear it piled high. So it generally lies in two long braids across the sheets. "Father," I asked, "what color is my hair?" He leaned forward and lifted one of the braids. "Exactly the color of cloudy amber," he answered. I pondered on this for a time, and then: "That," I said, "sounds very nice--but improbable." We smiled at one another, but suddenly the laughter left his eyes, and he bent to kiss my forehead, perhaps to hide his face. "You grow more lovely every day, Mavis," he said, gravely. Could anything be sweeter than a father who says all those little, lover things to one? I think not. I laid my cheek against his hand. He has nice hands, quick to soothe and caress. Nothing is quite unendurable with father near. "You should be a poet," I told him. "Sometimes I think you are, instead of a historian. Nothing in the world can ever make me believe that you write deadly-dull books for deadly-dull people to read. Do they read them?" I inquired as an afterthought. "Mavis!" he shook his finger at me, in mock indignation. "Well," I answered truthfully, "mediaeval history must be dull. I'm sure I can't remember any of it!" Here our argument, but half commenced, ceased. For father, with an exclamation, plunged his hands deep into his pockets, and after a time produced a slim, sober volume. "Here it is!" he cried in triumph. "Here is what?" I asked in some astonishment. "How you do dash about, father. Your mind turns all sorts of corners. What is it--mediaeval history?" "Certainly not, minx! Poetry!" "Poetry!" He laid the book on the bed, and my hands pounced upon it like two white cats on a small brown mouse. "I've been starving for some!" I announced, and turned the book over to read the title, _The Lyric Hour by Richard Warren_. "Where," I asked, tucking my treasure under my pillow, "did you get it?" "It came in the morning mail," he answered. I looked at him searchingly. "There is," I ventured, "some mystery about this _Lyric Hour_." Father laughed, and fished once more in his pockets. "Here is the letter which came with it," he said. I opened the envelope, which bore the name of father's publisher and good friend, and read: NEW YORK CITY June 18th Dear Carroll: