The stranger was led in captive, one upon either side of him, and being placed upon the sofa was regarded steadfastly for some little while. During a very thorough scrutiny the prisoner smiled affably, produced a pipe which he lighted carefully and puffed at steadily, and then inquired casually if they both thought he would do. "You look jolly," announced Ridgwell, "only I can't make out who you are; but you know Father and Mother very well, don't you?" "Rather," said the stranger, "great friends of mine." "But we've never seen you, have we?" added Christine. "No," replied the stranger, "but I thought it was quite time I made your acquaintance, so I thought I would call upon you. Sorry I haven't got a card, but you can supply something in its place which will be quite as good. Where does Father keep his books?" was the sudden and somewhat unexpected question. "It just depends," debated Ridgwell, "what particular lot you want. Biography, Philosophy, Romance or Poetry." "I think the Romance and Poetry department," suggested the stranger. "This way," said Ridgwell; "I will show you." The stranger ran his finger over the well-stocked orderly shelves, then he paused at four volumes side by side about the middle of the second shelf. "Of course you both read?" inquired the stranger. "Not those sort of books," explained Ridgwell. "We haven't quite got up to those sort of books yet." "Anyway you can read the author's name upon the back of each of them." The children nodded. "That's me," confessed the stranger. "I have the misfortune to write books that you don't read." "Father does," Ridgwell hastened to explain; "I've often heard him talk about you. Why, you're quite famous, aren't you?" "I hope not," said the Writer. "Anyway," concluded Ridgwell, "Father said you wrote jolly good stuff, only it was over the heads of the people, but Father said one of these days when you woke up, you would knock 'em, and I've heard him say that anyway it was better than some of the drivel a lot of people wrote nowadays. He hoped you'd reform, though." The Writer laughed. "A very candid opinion, Master Ridgwell, and I really must reform and mend my ways." "Don't you write fairy tales as well?" inquired Christine upon the way back to the dining-room. "Sometimes," agreed the Writer. Without more ado, Christine drew three chairs invitingly round the fire, almost by way of an invitation to recount some upon the spot.