reading Maud was not merely a crude picture of the great poet by his friend, but a revelation of the long pent-up sufferings of one who was doomed to sit in an attitude of attention, under the watchful eye of The Author Who Reads His Own Works, ready to respond at a glance with a nod, a smile or a tear. Therefore it was Marion who read Uncle Benny to Paul and Aunt Sophy and the author; it was I who, one morning during the reading, heard an unusual sound from the kitchen. Fearing that William, who was taking his breakfast there, had at last miscalculated his swallowing capacity and needed help, I quietly withdrew from the table and opened the door into the kitchen. To my amazement it collided with William's head, and he straightened himself up when he had recovered his equilibrium and looked at me with flushed cheeks and a foolish smile, making no attempt at explanation. Did I ask for one? Certainly not. I begged his pardon and hastened to get the liniment as if it was a most reprehensible act of mine to open the door without warning. I felt angry and humiliated that he had placed me in such an awkward position, but I could not be brutal enough to show my resentment by accusing him of eavesdropping, especially when it appeared to be the case. When he had recovered his speech and remarked incidentally that he was in the act of picking up his hard-boiled egg which had rolled in front of the door, I expressed the keenest regret for my carelessness and assured him I would be more cautious in future. Yet the revelation of his depravity was a distinct shock to us until I found that it was the reading of Uncle Benny that had attracted the dear old man, and that he could not resist the impulse to get within earshot. "I may as well own up," he confessed, at last, "that the way the missis reads them stories is as refreshin' to my mind as raspberry pies is to my stomach. She do read most beautiful, and when I hear Master Paul chippin' in with them odd sayin's and you and that old lady laughin' so cheery I jest can't help listenin'." William's spontaneous appreciation was delightful, and I found his admiration for my fictitious Uncle Benny most amusing, considering how unconscious he was that I was the author, and that he cordially detested the original of the character, Peter Waydean. But I ceased to enjoy his enthusiasm when it threatened to become a mania, for he unbosomed himself one day of a plan he had made to go to the city to make the personal acquaintance of Uncle Benny at the _Observer_ office. I tried to dislodge this idea, showing him the absurdity of looking for a person who probably didn't exist, but I was mistaken in thinking my arguments effective, for in a few days I found a letter at my office addressed to Uncle Benny in William's crooked handwriting. I read it with rising indignation.