Albert laughed. “Don't worry, Grandfather,” he said. “I'm enjoying it all very much. And some of the suggestions may be just what I'm looking for.” “Well, son, we'll hope so. Say, Labe, I've got a notion for keepin' the minister from doin' all the talkin.' We'll ask Issy Price to drop in; eh?” Laban shook his head. “I don't know, Cap'n Lote,” he observed. “Sounds to me a good deal like lettin' in a hurricane to blow out a match with. . . . Um-hm. Seems so to me. Yes, yes.” Mr. Kendall's calls would have been more frequent still had Helen not interfered. Very often, when he came she herself dropped in a little later and insisted upon his making an early start for home. Occasionally she came with him. She, too, seemed much interested in the progress of the stories, but she offered few suggestions. When directly appealed to, she expressed her views, and they were worth while. Albert was resolutely adhering to his determination not to permit himself to think of her except as a friend. That is, he hoped he was; thoughts are hard to control at times. He saw her often. They met on the street, at church on Sunday--his grandmother was so delighted when he accompanied her to “meeting” that he did so rather more frequently, perhaps, than he otherwise would--at the homes of acquaintances, and, of course, at the Snow place. When she walked home with her father after a “story evening” he usually went with them as additional escort. She had not questioned him concerning Madeline since their first meeting that morning at the parsonage. He knew, therefore, that some one--his grandmother, probably--had told her of the broken engagement. When they were alone together they talked of many things, casual things, the generalities of which, so he told himself, a conversation between mere friends was composed. But occasionally, after doing escort duty, after Mr. Kendall had gone into the house to take his “throat medicine”--a medicine which Captain Zelotes declared would have to be double-strength pretty soon to offset the wear and tear of the story evenings--they talked of matters more specific and which more directly concerned themselves. She spoke of her hospital work, of her teaching before the war, and of her plans for the future. The latter, of course, were very indefinite now. “Father needs me,” she said, “and I shall not leave him while he lives.” They spoke of Albert's work and plans most of all. He began to ask for advice concerning the former. When those stories were written, what then? She hoped he would try the novel he had hinted at. “I'm sure you can do it,” she said. “And you mustn't give up the poems altogether. It was the poetry, you know, which was the beginning.” “YOU were the beginning,” he said impulsively. “Perhaps I should never have written at all if you hadn't urged me, shamed me out of my laziness.”