“Well, old man, what's up?” It was Bertram's amazed voice from the hall doorway; and indeed, William Henshaw, red-faced and plainly trembling, seated on the lowest step of the stairway, and gazing, wild-eyed, at the letter in his hand, was somewhat of an amazing sight. “What IS up?” “What's up!” groaned William, starting to his feet, and waving the letter frantically in the air. “What's up! Young man, do you want us to take in a child to board?--a CHILD?” he repeated in slow horror. “Well, hardly,” laughed the other. “Er, perhaps Cyril might like it, though; eh?” “Come, come, Bertram, be sensible for once,” pleaded his brother, nervously. “This is serious, really serious, I tell you!” “What is serious?” demanded Cyril, coming down the stairway. “Can't it wait? Pete has already sounded the gong twice for dinner.” William made a despairing gesture. “Well, come,” he groaned. “I'll tell you at the table.... It seems I've got a namesake,” he resumed in a shaking voice, a few moments later; “Walter Neilson's child.” “And who's Walter Neilson?” asked Bertram. “A boyhood friend. You wouldn't remember him. This letter is from his child.” “Well, let's hear it. Go ahead. I fancy we can stand the--LETTER; eh, Cyril?” Cyril frowned. Cyril did not know, perhaps, how often he frowned at Bertram. The eldest brother wet his lips. His hand shook as he picked up the letter. “It--it's so absurd,” he muttered. Then he cleared his throat and read the letter aloud. “DEAR UNCLE WILLIAM: Do you mind my calling you that? You see I want SOME one, and there isn't any one now. You are the nearest I've got. Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm named for you. Walter Neilson was my father, you know. My Aunt Ella has just died. “Would you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is, between times--I'm going to college, of course, and after that I'm going to be--well, I haven't decided that part yet. I think I'll consult you. You may have some preference, you know. You can be thinking it up until I come.