From the time that the little Jean had announced herself as her father's boy, he took more interest in her; and as the child developed, he saw unfolding the traits and abilities he had hoped to nurture in a son. Intuitively she seemed to understand his moods and fancies, and as her understanding developed, the books were a source of delight to her, and many times she discussed knotty problems with her father in a way that pleased him mightily. So, as the years went by, she slipped into the place the father had reserved for the son, and he loved her with a peculiarly tender love and was never prouder of her than when he heard her say, in explanation of her notions and her plans, "I am my father's boy." On the particular night when Maggie Crowley was wandering about in the storm, two young women occupied a handsome room in the Thorn home. A cheerful wood fire burned on the hearth and the clear rays from an overhanging light cast brightness over the rows of books that lined the walls. These were two people who minded not the winter weather. The cold wind blowing through the gables and leafless trees held no terror for them. Perhaps they rather liked to hear it as by way of comparison it made their lot seem more comfortable. The tall slender woman with black hair was examining alternately a fashion book and a bunch of samples. She was Vivian, a pronounced society lady. The other sat in a low chair, by a small study table, reading, only looking up now and then to answer some question put to her by her sister. This was "my father's boy." The solemn little Jean was gone, in her place was this altogether charming young person, whose shapely head was crowned with coils and coils of red brown hair held in place by numerous quaintly carved silver hairpins. If it had not been for the clear gray eyes and the quaint fashion she still had of dropping her head on one side when solving some momentous problem, the little Jean might have been a dream. Presently the door opened and Judge Thorn entered. "Nice evening, girls!" "Delightful!" "Blackstone, Jean?" The young lady looked at the book quizzically a moment and then laughed. "United States history, father. Last week I reviewed Caesar. Now I am on this, and if I do my best I think I may reasonably hope to be in the Third Reader by next week." The judge laughed. "I have been reading our constitution and looking over the record of 'the late unpleasantness,'" said Jean. "It is very interesting to me. Do you know, father, I love every woman who gave a husband or a son to her country, and I almost hold in reverence the memory of the men who shed their blood to effect the abolition of human slavery in America." The tall form of the Judge straightened and his eye brightened, like a soldier's when he hears the names of his old battle-fields.