Now Kadott is my pet. I've called her Kadott for a little missionary Japanese friend, who lives at Hadji Konak, and I wonder if the Japanese at Hadji Konak will appreciate the honor? The one thing that makes me fond of Kadott is that she is very much in love with me; but she annoys me, too, because she makes me keep my distance and still coquettes. She has an odd little trick of coming nearly to me, turning her head and cocking her ear, as if to say: "There is going to be a love scene, and I must beware of eavesdroppers." Some of these days she will eat from my hand. But now she only comes close and darts away at the first approach. She has built her nest and she has the mother instinct. When she has hatched her little family I'm going to be Uncle Henry to every one of them. And that is what I've been trying to get to. If the nasty little fat robin butts into Kadott's family relations, there will be a murder. My hands will be red with the blood of a bandit. When you come out to That House I Bought, stay all night and listen to the birds in the early morning. It seems to me that a man who listens to the birds in the right spirit ought to make a fairly decent citizen, in time. SEVENTH PERIOD My wife is a most observant woman. "Love," she said to me, apparently apropos of nothing at all, "must be a farce in a country where there is no moonlight." I nodded assent. It didn't strike me as being worth much more. "I wonder what is the trouble?" she said, after a pause. "Trouble?" I repeated inquiringly. "Across the street," she explained, "there were two Silhouettes in the parlor Monday night, and one went away early; the other had her handkerchief to her eyes----" "Oho! So you've been keeping cases, eh?" "I don't get your vernacular," she retorted meaningly. "Well--er--what's this got to do with moonlight?" I demanded, changing the subject. "It was moonlight last night, and it's moonlight to-night," she replied, "and all the derbies on the hat-rack over there belong to the men in the family, and it's nine-thirty. It seems to me that if I were the Man Silhouette, I'd at least write, but the mailman hasn't stopped there but once in four days, and then he only delivered a circular, because I got one myself and I recognized it by the big red type on the envelope, and--I think it's a shame, that's what I do, and I don't care, so there!" You know, when a woman doesn't care, so there, she usually gets all worked up about it. It's a way she has of showing her indifference. "Have you seen him yet--the Man Silhouette?" I asked. "No," she replied; "but I thought, if he came to-night, it's so bright and all, I'd get a peep at his face. It would be awful if he were a dissipated man!" "You don't know her, and you don't know him, and you don't know her folks, and what difference does it make to you whether he runs a church or a roulette wheel?" I asked mildly.