“No, but do you know, whenever I ride any distance, I feel that I must write something because money spent on tickets seems money thrown away.” “Dear me, is it a poet speaking or a thrifty Yankee.” Cherry spoke to him as if she had known him all her life. I did not know but he would take offence, but he was looking at her when she spoke, and that made all the difference in the world. Ethel said one day that Cherry’s eyes apologised for whatever daring might be in her words. “I’m very thrifty. I have need to be,” said Sibthorp earnestly, and as I knew that his income for the preceding year had been something in the neighbourhood of four hundred dollars, I flashed a warning signal to Cherry, and asked him to do the thing that would make him the happiest. “After dinner suppose you read us the stuff you’ve been writing.” “How disrespectful,” said Cherry. “Stuff!” “Why, if it wouldn’t bore you?” said he, smiling at Cherry. “Lovely! Perfectly delicious!” said Cherry, and Ethel said, “It’ll make me think I’m living in a literary atmosphere once more. Since Philip won that prize, he’s simply vegetated. I don’t like it a bit. What’s your story about?” “It’s a sort of fable. I call it the ‘Two Altruists.’” We had coffee served out under the maple, and while we were drinking it Sibthorp, after apologising for not being a better reader, began it. “Once upon a time—” “Wait a minute,” said I, “Here comes Minerva. She doesn’t want to listen, but it’ll go better if we wait until she has gone.” She had come for the cups and saucers, and she took Ellery’s coffee before he had had a chance to touch it, but no one noticed, he least of all, intent as he was upon disburdening his mind of his fable. I make no bones of producing it, because we all liked it so well that it seems as if a larger audience might be pleased at its whimsical tone. “‘Once upon a time,’” he began again, “‘there was a man whose chief happiness came from seeing others happy. He was indeed an absolute altruist. “‘Now it so fell about that this altruist was a professional writer, and wove tales for the magazines, and one day, being in a happy mood, caused by his having given his last crust and his last shirt to a professional beggar, he wove a story for a competition and was so fortunate as to receive the capital prize of $1,000.00.’” (“I was thinking of you, Philip, when I wrote that,” said he.)