Flo had the shrewdness to judge this to be an effective touch, and it did not matter that her knowledge of the American author was limited to the bare fact that he had written something about a place of that name. "I am glad to find you have read one of my favourites," Henry replied, and the echo of an absurd "What is Meredith?" rang in his ears. It prompted him to ask, without apparent reason: "By-the-by, have you read Meredith? He is one of the least known and greatest of living writers." "Oh, yes, isn't he perfectly lovely?" She had a vague recollection of hearing the name somewhere. "I am just in the middle of his latest novel, 'Beauchamp's Career.' It is positively Titanic." "I am sure it must be interesting, and I should love to read it. But really you must tell me about this Sleepy Hollow of yours. Who did you see there?" "My own folk, of course, and a handful of old friends." "Anybody in par-tic-u-lar?" Flo smiled roguishly. She had practised the smile before, and could do it to perfection. "N-o; nobody--worth mentioning." Henry had a suspicion that he was being teased, and he rather liked the operation. "Really! I can scarcely believe you. But all the same, I have a fancy to see this birthplace of our budding editor. I imagine it must be a sweet little spot." "Perhaps it is best in imagination. You would find the actual thing deadly dull." He felt himself drifting rudderless before a freshening breeze of talkee-talkee. "No, no, no; I am sure I wouldn't, though you do not paint it with purple. Do you know," she went on, resting her pretty head upon her hand and glancing up sideways at him, "I'm beginning to think that they don't appreciate you properly in Hampton Bagot. A prophet has no honour in his own country, they say. But we are proud of you here." "Perhaps that maxim is not always true, although it is biblical. In my own case, I fear there is at least one at Hampton who thinks too much of my ability." "Ah, now you have said it. And who is that one, pray?" "My father." "Oh! No one else?" "My mother and sisters, perhaps." "I should so much like to meet your sisters. I almost feel as if I knew them already. Who knows but some day I may have a peep at your Sleepy Hollow, and tell your sisters all about you!" The prospect was an alarming one to Henry, and for the first time in his life he felt himself ashamed of that little home behind the Post Office door. But on the whole, the chatter of this young lady was pleasant in his ears. By no means vain of his abilities, he was still hungry for appreciation, and he had not yet learned the most difficult of all lessons: to recognise sincere admiration. It seemed to him that in Flo Winton he had found one who understood him, whose sympathetic interest in his work and ambitions could brace and hearten him in the discharge of the important duties to which there was every likelihood of his being called before he was a day older.