The book was well under way and the proofs read, when my brother's physicians decided that an operation of a somewhat serious character was necessary. He met the ordeal bravely and came through it well. We had a pleasant Christmas together at Gunston Hall, and he was recommencing work on The Just and the Unjust, when another very serious operation was determined upon. Two weeks after the second operation a third operation was performed. My brother rallied, and in March was able to return to Gunston Hall. He had the satisfaction of knowing that his book had achieved all the success he could possibly have hoped for it. He died at Gunston Hall on the night of the fourth of July, 1911. Paul Kester. THE HAND OF THE MIGHTY SIMPLE and genuine, that's the way Thomas R. Pendagrast impressed the valley. You really might have felt, after listenin' to his innocent chatter, that he'd barely got under the wire. He wasn't much to look at, either. Plain in the face, but comfortable-lookin', as if he was well fed, and with the winnin'est smile that ever come into the valley. You'd never have picked him out of any crowd for a millionaire, he was such a simple soul. That was the key-note of his character as we have read it. For takin' him all in all, I never seen but one simpler soul, and that was Silas Quinby. No, we never called Silas Si. That would have been too much like intrudin' on his privacy. You see, you felt instinctive Quinby couldn't stand for no reductions; that he hadn't anything to lose without great personal sufferin'. Silas lived at the head of the valley. His was a white frame house with green blinds and a dornick-bordered walk leadin' down to the front gate. When you knew Silas and seen his house, you realized he was like that; that if there'd been a way to look into his soul, you'd have found it was painted white, with green blinds, and had a straight and narrow path leadin' off to travel in. We had a heap more respect for Silas than confidence in him. He was a man who looked like he'd stand indefinite without hitchin'. He was a lawyer, but he hadn't no practise, because no one in the valley had ever been able to make up his mind to let Silas practise on him. There was some reckless characters here, just like there is in every neighborhood, but none of 'em had ever been that reckless. So at the end of forty years Silas was still waitin' for his first case.