The unconscious object of the shaft put up paper and pen, and addressed himself with deliberate dignity, upon the arrival of his raw oysters, to the lower task of filling the material part of him. He was discussing a juicy square of porterhouse steak, as March bowed respectfully on his way out to the girl at the head of the board, a smile in his pleasant eyes being especially intended for the dwarfed cripple beside her. Homer had bolted the last fragment of a huge segment of custard pie, washed down the crust with a second jorum of coffee, and sat, satiate and sheepish, upon the tall stool, awaiting orders. “The most extraordinary combinery, taken in all its parts, it was ever my luck to behold,” declared March Gilchrist at his father’s dinner table that evening. “Intensely American throughout, though. I wish I knew whether or not the man who appropriated the reserved seat was a usurper. If he were, that spirited little economist of a courier was quite capable of dispossessing him, or, at least, of calling the waiter to account for neglect of duty. And what relation did blind Homer bear to the party?” “Dear old March!” said his sister affectionately. “Story weaving in the old fashion! How natural it sounds! What jolly times you and I have had over our amateur romances and make believes! Which reminds me of a remarkable sermon preached Sunday before last by our new pastor. (I told you we had one, didn’t I?) The text was: ‘Six waterpots of stone, containing two or three firkins apiece!’” “Absurd!” “True; but listen! The text was only a hook from which he hung an eloquent discourse upon the power of faith to make wine—‘old and mellow and flavorous,’ _he_ called it—out of what to grosser souls seems insipid water. It was a plea for the pleasures of imagination—_alias_ faith—and elevated our favorite amusement into a fine art, and the fine art into religion. I came home feeling like a spiritual chameleon, fully convinced that rarefied air is the rightful sustenance of an immortal being. According to our Mr. Wayt, what you haven’t got is the only thing you ought to be sure of. Life is a sort of ‘Now you see it and now you don’t see it’ business throughout. Only, when you don’t see it you are richer and happier than when you do. Did you ever think to hear me babble metaphysics? Now, where are those portfolios?” “Make believe that you have overhauled them, and be blest,” retorted her brother. “There’s a chance to practice your metaphysical cant—with a new, deep meaning in it, too, which you will detect when you inspect my daubs. I did some fairish things in Norway, however, which may prove that your rule has an exception.” The Gilchrists freely acknowledged themselves to be what the son and daughter styled “a mutual admiration square.” March’s portfolios were not the only engrossing subject that drew them together in the library, where coffee and cigars were served.