The others said nothing, but their confidence in Barrifield's purchasing ability had received a distinct jar. Presently Perner noticed the head waiter watching them intently. He was about to mention this when the minion walked over and spoke to Barrifield in a whisper. Barrifield grew red and began to drag the things together as the waiter moved away. "What's the matter? What did he say, Barry?" asked Van Dorn. At first Barrifield did not answer. Then the humor of it seized him, and he chuckled all over, growing even redder as he hid away the things. "Come, old man, what did he say?" urged Livingstone. Barrifield could hardly steady his voice for laughter. "It's too good to keep," he admitted. "Out with it, then," said Perner. "Why," said Barrifield, "he said that they had sample-rooms up-stairs, and that it was against the rules to show samples here in the dining-room." "Hoo-ee!" shouted Van Dorn. "That calls for something." "By gad! yes," said Livingstone, "it does!" It was well along in the afternoon when the friends left the place, and Perner, Van Dorn, and Livingstone returned to their apartments. They went over at first and stood for some moments before the picture of the bread line. "Why don't you finish it, Stony?" asked Perner. "Finish it up and sell it for enough to pay your part in the 'Whole Family.'" "Good scheme-- I've thought of it," confessed Livingstone. "Do you suppose there are any publishers in that line?" mused Van Dorn. Livingstone laughed. "I say, fellows, let's take a walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out the houses we're going to buy next year!" As they turned to go, Van Dorn took up a blank piece of drawing-paper and a brush. He worked away a few moments, the others looking on. As they passed out he tacked it to the outer door with pins. Then they all faced about, and, standing abreast, read in the fading light of the hall-way: OFFICE OF THE WHOLE FAMILY A WEEKLY PAPER FOR YOUNG AND OLD V A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK TO MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND MY DEAR, DEAREST DORRY: When I sit down to write to you there is always so much I want to say that I never know where to begin, and in the end I seem to tell you nothing at all except that I love you, which you have heard so much I am always afraid you will grow tired of hearing it again. Then I turn cold at the thought, and rewrite the letter to leave out some of the times, but before I am done I find them all in again somewhere else; so it is no use, you see, and I generally send the first letter, after all. Then, when it is gone I want it back, though I don't know whether I want it to take out some of the times I've said it, or to put in some more that I didn't say.