The book I had chosen was one belonging to the Denboro Ladies' Library; Miss Almena Doane, the librarian, had recommended it highly, as a “real interesting story, with lots of uplifting thoughts in it.” The thoughts might be uplifting to Almena, but they did not elevate my spirits. As for the story--well, the hero was a young gentleman who was poor but tremendously clever and handsome, and the heroine had eyes “as dark and deep as starlit pools.” The poor but beautiful person met the pool-eyed one at a concert, where he sat, “his whole soul transfigured by the music,” and she had been “fascinated in spite of herself” by the look on his face. I read as far as that and dropped the book in disgust. After that I must have fallen asleep. What awakened me was a knock on the door. It was Lute, of course. Probably mother wanted me for something or other, and Dorinda had sent her husband to hunt me up. The knock was repeated. “Come in,” I said, sleepily. The door opened and in came, not Lute, but a tall, portly man, with a yachting cap on the back of his gray head, and a cigar in his mouth. He looked at me as I lay on the couch and I lay on the couch and looked at him. “Afternoon,” he said, curtly. “Is your name Paine?” I nodded. I was waking rapidly, but I was too astonished to speak. “Roscoe Paine?” “Yes.” “Well, mine's Colton. I sent you a letter this morning. Did you get it?” CHAPTER IV I sat up on the couch. Mr. Colton knocked the ashes from his cigar, waited an instant, and then repeated his question. “Did you get my letter?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “Oh, you did. I was afraid that man of mine might have forgotten to mail it.” “No, I got it. Won't you--er--won't you sit down?” He pulled the armchair toward him and sat down. I noticed that he had a habit of doing things quickly. His sentences were short and to the point and he spoke and acted like one accustomed to having his own way. He crossed his knees and looked about the little building. “It is a pleasant day,” I observed, for the sake of saying something. He did not seem to hear me, or, if he did, he was not interested in the weather. For my part I found the situation embarrassing. I knew what his next question would be, and I did not know how to answer. Sure enough, he asked it. “I wrote you to come over to my place this forenoon,” he said. “You didn't come.” “No. I--” “Why not?” Here was the issue joined. Here, if ever, was the opportunity to assert my independence a la Jed Dean and Alvin Baker. But to assert it now, after he had done the unexpected, after the mountain had come to Mahomet, seemed caddish and ridiculous. So I temporized, weakly. “I didn't read your letter until about noon,” I said. “I see. Well, I waited until two o'clock and then I decided to hunt you up. I called at your house. The woman there said you were down here. Your mother?”