“It may interest you to know that I’m proposing to write a book about mother myself. The Henrysons naturally wish one to go with their edition of her writings, and they pay quite handsomely. What they want isn’t a complete biography, you know--just the recollections of a daughter. They seem to think me the one best qualified to do it. Perhaps, after all, I am.” “It is impossible!” exclaimed Helen Bradford. “I cannot allow this thing to go on. At great personal inconvenience I have agreed to do the book; and I refuse to be placed in the undignified position into which you are trying to force me. I decided that I’d better write it myself, partly because you seemed to be jealous about having Henry do it. I have prepared to give valuable time to it. And what is my reward? You have gone ahead secretly and made arrangements on your own account not for one biography, but for two. I think it most selfish and inconsiderate of you.” “It will injure sales,” put in Henry Bradford, knowingly. “Of course you don’t need to go ahead with yours, Helen, if you feel like that,” said Margaret. “I don’t see why--” began Mr. Bradford, but he was interrupted by his wife. “I don’t see why either. There _is_ no reason. I’m not going to let you get all the honor and reward of it. What would people think of me?” Margaret laughed. “Only that you were too busy to write, my dear,” she remarked; “that you had left it to less important members of the family.” “I shall write the book in spite of you,” Mrs. Bradford replied. She was furiously angry and a quite unlovely spectacle. A volcano in eruption is not necessarily beautiful. “Mother always taught me,” she continued, “never to be too busy to do my duty. I couldn’t bear to think of leaving her great personality in the hands of either of you. You are undutiful children.” Charles Longbow’s frown had deepened, but he had regained his composure. “I think, Helen,” he said, “that mother wouldn’t like to see us quarreling like this. She believed in peace and calm.” For a moment his natural generosity seemed to assert itself. “You are so much like her that I can’t bear to have anything come between us. I’m sorry I didn’t know you wanted to write the book.” “You did very wrong in not consulting me,” replied Helen, with angry dignity. “I was at least mother’s eldest child, and took a considerable share in her great work. You ought to see Singleton and get him to release you from your contract.” “Perhaps Helen ought to have her own way,” remarked Margaret, wearily. “She always has.” “I’m certainly not going to change my arrangements now,” Charles returned, with sudden stiffness. “I shall bring out a work in suitable form, something on a scale worthy of mother. What is more, her journal and all her papers are mine to do what I please with.” “Come, Henry!” cried Mrs. Bradford. “You may like to have insults heaped upon me, but I won’t remain to hear them.”