"Good girls!" he said. "I couldn't afford to lose my best--patients." He straightened his broad shoulders and looked round the room. "When I saw anything new over there," he said, "castle or picture-gallery or cathedral,--whatever it was,--I always compared it with this room, and it never stood the comparison for an instant. Pleasantest place in the world, to my thinking." Miss Phoebe beamed over her spectacles. "You pay us a high compliment, James," she said. "It is pleasant indeed to feel that home still seems best to you. I confess that, great as are the treasures of art, and magnificent as are the monuments in the cities of Europe, I have always felt that as places of residence they would not compare favorably with Elmerton." "Quite right," said Doctor Stedman, "quite right!" and though his eyes twinkled, he spoke with conviction. "The cities of Europe," Mr. Homer observed, "can hardly be suited, as places of residence, to--a--persons of literary taste. There is"--he waved his hands--"too much noise; too much--sound; too much--absence of tranquillity. I could wish, though, to have seen the grave of Keats." "I brought you a leaf from his grave, Homer," said Doctor Stedman, kindly. "I have it at home, in my pocketbook. I'll bring it down to the office to-morrow. I went to the burying-ground on purpose." "Did you so?" exclaimed Mr. Homer, his mild face growing radiant with pleasure. "That was kind, James; that was--friendly; that was--benevolent! I shall value it highly, highly. I thank you, James. I--since you are interested in the lamented Keats, perhaps you would like"--his hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket. "I must go now," said Doctor Stedman, hastily. "I've stayed too long already, but I never know how to get away from this house. Good night, Phoebe! Good night, Vesta! You are looking a little tired; take care of yourself. 'Night, Homer; see you to-morrow!" He shook hands heartily all around and was gone. Mr. Homer sighed gently. "It is a great pity," he said, "with his excellent disposition, that James will never interest himself in literary pursuits." His hand was still fluttering about his pocket, and there was an unspoken appeal in his mild brown eyes. "Have you brought something to read to us, Cousin Homer?" asked Miss Phoebe, benevolently. Mr. Homer with alacrity drew a folded paper from his pocket. "This is--you may be aware, Cousin Phoebe--the anniversary of the birth of the lamented Keats. I always like to pay some tribute to his memory on these occasions, and I have here a slight thing--I tossed it off after breakfast this morning--which I confess I should like to read to you. You know how highly I value your opinion, Cousin Phoebe, and some criticism may suggest itself to you, though I trust that in the main--but you shall judge for yourself." He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and began: "Thoughts suggested by the Anniversary of the Natal Day of the poet Keats."