"I wish I could say--what I want to--and can't find words for--" Hilary said. "We haven't consulted the higher authorities yet, you know." "And--Oh, I don't see how mother could get on without us, even if--" "Mothers have a knack at getting along without a good many things--when it means helping their young folks on a bit," Mr. Shaw remarked. "I'll have a talk with her and your father to-night." That evening, pacing up and down the front veranda with his brother, Mr. Shaw said, with his customary abruptness, "You seem to have fitted in here, Phil,--perhaps, you were in the right of it, after all. I take it you haven't had such a hard time, in some ways." The minister did not answer immediately. Looking back nearly twenty years, he told himself, that he did not regret that early choice of his. He had fitted into the life here; he and his people had grown together. It had not always been smooth sailing and more than once, especially the past year or so, his narrow means had pressed him sorely, but on the whole, he had found his lines cast in a pleasant place, and was not disposed to rebel against his heritage. "Yes," he said, at last, "I have fitted in; too easily, perhaps. I never was ambitious, you know." "Except in the accumulating of books," his brother suggested. The minister smiled. "I have not been able to give unlimited rein even to that mild ambition. Fortunately, the rarer the opportunity, the greater the pleasure it brings with it--and the old books never lose their charm." Mr. Paul Shaw flicked the ashes from his cigar. "And the girls--you expect them to fit in, too?" "It is their home." A note the elder brother knew of old sounded in the younger man's voice. "Don't mount your high horse just yet, Phil," he said. "I'm not going to rub you up the wrong way--at least, I don't mean to; but you were always an uncommonly hard chap to handle--in some matters. I grant you, it is their home and not a had sort of home for a girl to grow up in." Mr. Shaw stood for a moment at the head of the steps, looking off down the peaceful, shadowy street. It had been a pleasant week; he had enjoyed it wonderfully. He meant to have many more such. But to live here always! Already the city was calling to him; he was homesick for its rush and bustle, the sense of life and movement. "You and I stand as far apart to-day, in some matters, Phil, as we did twenty--thirty years ago," he said presently, "and that eldest daughter of yours--I'm a fair hand at reading character or I shouldn't be where I am to-day, if I were not--is more like me than you." "So I have come to think--lately." "That second girl takes after you; she would never have written that letter to me last May." "No, Hilary would not have at the time--"