"Maybe," said Phil looking at him quickly, "it is better not to keep them. Was it one of these plates that broke?" "Yes," said Kirkwood; "it was this one"; and he indicated the picture that revealed his wife in her young womanhood. It was over this that he had been dreaming alone in the dim gallery when she had interrupted his reverie. The pity of it all, the bleak desolation of his life, smote her sharply, now that she had caught a glimpse of the ghosts scampering off down the long vistas. With an abrupt gesture she flung aside the melancholy reminder of his tragedy. "Dear old daddy!" She held him in her strong arms and kissed him. She felt that all these spectres must be driven back into their world of shadows, and she seized the prints and tore them until only little heaps of paper remained and these she scattered upon the floor. "Are these the plates?" He indicated them with a nod. One after the other they crashed echoingly in the bare gallery. She accomplished the destruction swiftly and with certainty. One that fell on edge undamaged she broke with her heel. Then she took a match from his pocket and lit the gas in one of the old burners. The light revealed a slight smile on his face, but it was not his accustomed smile of good humor. His eyes were very sad and gentle. "Thank you, dear old Phil! I guess that's the best way, after all. It must be time to go home now. Are you ready?" "Wait here a minute--you had better pull down the windows and lock up. I'll close the office and you can meet me on the landing." She went out, closing the door, and ran down to the office, where Charles Holton stood at the window looking out upon Main Street, where the electric lamps were just sputtering into light. "Ah," he cried turning toward her with a bow, "I'd begun to think you had forgotten my unworthy presence on earth!" "Not at all, Mr. Holton. I'm sorry, but my father is too much engaged to see you to-day. If you really want to see him you can come in to-morrow." This was not what he had expected. Dismissal was in her tone rather more than in her words. Their eyes met for a moment in the dim dusk and he would have prolonged the contact; but she walked to the desk and stood there, looking down at the copy of "Elia" which lay as she had left it when he had interrupted her reading. She refused to be conscious of his disappointment or to make amends for having caused him to wait needlessly. He turned at the door. "I hope I haven't put you to any inconvenience?" he remarked, but without resentment. "Not at all, Mr. Holton. Good-afternoon!" "Good-day, Miss Kirkwood." She listened until his step died away down the stair and then went out and whistled for her father. CHAPTER VIII LISTENING HILL