"I think I shall ask you to release her, Andrews." I laid a hand upon his shoulder. "Some day I shall explain to you more fully. It’s been—but never mind that. I should like to take my ward home—with your permission?" "Certainly, certainly," he affirmed with spontaneous vehemence. "But come in soon, both of you—she’s of our stripe, Mr. Byrd—she loves the good things!—come in both. I expect to have some new things from Professor Gurney’s library that’ll delight you." "We shall indeed, my dear Andrews. Get your hat, Alicia." And as she turned away for her things, I managed to murmur this much to the kindly Andrews: "I shall never forget your conduct in this matter, Andrews—you’re a great bookseller, but, man dear, you’re even a greater gentleman!" And with as little delay as possible we left the shop. A spate of questions boiled in my brain and foamed up like turbulent waters backed by a dam. But all at once I came to a sharp decision. I knew enough. It was that devil Pendleton that had filled her mind with the thought that she was a burden until the poor child was wild with a frenzy of distraction. But he had not been able to trust to his persuasions. Then there was the scene of that dreadful evening when, in her bewilderment, she realized herself as an apple of discord, a shatterer of families. I believed I understood enough. "Where did you sleep, Alicia?" I asked her nonchalantly. "I have a little room in Twenty-fourth Street," she answered simply. "I haven’t paid for it yet. The landlady wanted money in advance, but I told her I didn’t have it, so she let me stay, anyway." "Let us go there, my dear, and settle it now." "Yes, Uncle Ranny," she murmured low. "I’ve got to hand it to you, ’Licia," broke out Randolph, emerging from his silence. "You’re a true sport—for a girl!" Whereat we all burst into happy laughter. And for the rest of our peregrinations as well as in the train, the lad could not take his eyes from Alicia in sheer amazed admiration. It was as though he were seeing her for the first time. *CHAPTER XX* Had I time to speculate philosophically, I could expend much of it in wondering why pure joy cannot be recorded. Perhaps because we experience so little of it. Of sorrow and tribulation we strange creatures that are men can give a pretty fair account. From Job down we have excelled in it. But before sheer joy we are dumb. I can only repeat to myself the poor colorless words that I am happy, happy, happy as the day is short.