Mr. Adolph Musser, in New York with his daughter, began to have callers. The two small upper rooms in Harrow Street were not adapted for callers, even in the adaptable Village. Especially this was so because an adopted male child of one year was rooted and ramifying in the place. One of the ramifications was a female lodger and one-time nurse who looked after the child while Pidge was away at the office. Mr. Musser, during his first week in New York, before he found an apartment in the Sixties, had pronounced this woman too heavy-footed to live with. Though Pidge had received an important increase of salary, dating from the first of this year of 1919, she did not find herself in a greatly improved condition when the additional expenses of nurse and her father’s separate maintenance were considered. However, something happened which she had not foreseen. Mr. Adolph Musser became rapidly self-supporting. According to his predictions, New York proved to be suffering from a “biological hunger and thirst” for his very sort of metaphysic. Los Angeles had been sated. One had merely to move from temple to temple in Los Angeles. Cultists of all colors were there; light-bringers from all lands. Mr. Musser, according to predictions, found New York a virgin oil field and he was not long in getting his derricks up. Late in May there was a letter from Richard Cobden, mailed at Bombay in early April. Though it was written to Pidge personally she saw in it Dicky’s first real work, his first actual grasp and retention of essentials, to her idea. It opened to her, also, the lineaments of the Big Story they had talked so much about. She read the letter through twice on the day it arrived, and that night took it home to read to Miss Claes, who came to the upper room in the latter part of the evening, as she had come to hear _The Lance of the Rivernais_, over five years ago. Their faces were close together, and Pidge read low and rapidly: