“There! Maybe I ought not to have said that, for perhaps you won't want me to come. I AM noisy, I'll own, but not so I think you'll mind it much unless some of you have 'nerves' or a 'heart.' You see, Miss Letty and Miss Ann--they're Mr. Harding's sisters, and Mr. Harding is our lawyer, and he will write to you. Well, where was I? Oh, I know--on Miss Letty's nerves. And, say, do you know, that is where I do get--on Miss Letty's nerves. I do, truly. You see, Mr. Harding very kindly suggested that I live with them, but, mercy! Miss Letty's nerves won't let you walk except on tiptoe, and Miss Ann's heart won't let you speak except in whispers. All the chairs and tables have worn little sockets in the carpets, and it's a crime to move them. There isn't a window-shade in the house that isn't pulled down EXACTLY to the middle sash, except where the sun shines, and those are pulled way down. Imagine me and Spunk living there! Oh, by the way, you don't mind my bringing Spunk, do you? I hope you don't, for I couldn't live without Spunk, and he couldn't live with out me. “Please let me hear from you very soon. I don't mind if you telegraph; and just 'come' would be all you'd have to say. Then I'd get ready right away and let you know what train to meet me on. And, oh, say--if you'll wear a pink in your buttonhole I will, too. Then we'll know each other. My address is just 'Hampden Falls.' “Your awfully homesick namesake, “BILLY HENSHAW NEILSON” For one long minute there was a blank silence about the Henshaw dinner-table; then the eldest brother, looking anxiously from one man to the other, stammered: “W-well?” “Great Scott!” breathed Bertram. Cyril said nothing, but his lips were white with their tense pressure against each other. There was another pause, and again William broke it anxiously. “Boys, this isn't helping me out any! What's to be done?” “'Done'!” flamed Cyril. “Surely, you aren't thinking for a moment of LETTING that child come here, William!” Bertram chuckled. “He WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldn't he? Such nice smooth floors you've got up-stairs to trundle little tin carts across!” “Tin nonsense!” retorted Cyril. “Don't be silly, Bertram. That letter wasn't written by a baby. He'd be much more likely to make himself at home with your paint box, or with some of William's junk.” “Oh, I say,” expostulated William, “we'll HAVE to keep him out of those things, you know.” Cyril pushed back his chair from the table. “'We'll have to keep him out'! William, you can't be in earnest! You aren't going to let that boy come here,” he cried. “But what can I do?” faltered the man. “Do? Say 'no,' of course. As if we wanted a boy to bring up!” “But I must do something. I--I'm all he's got. He says so.” “Good heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the penitentiary; anywhere but here!” “Shucks! Let the kid come,” laughed Bertram. “Poor little homesick devil! What's the use? I'll take him in. How old is he, anyhow?”