But what wasteful brevity in that phrase, “much needed”! What did that mean? (Why will a man try to put a forty-word meaning into a ten-word telegram?) Sickness? Business troubles? One of those independent, interfering children in a scrape? One thing I was blessedly sure of: it did not mean any difficulty between Cyrus and his wife; they were of the tribe who marry for love and love for life. But the need must be something serious and urgent, else he never would have sent for me. With a family like his almost anything might happen. Perhaps Aunt Elizabeth--I never could feel any confidence in a red-haired female who habitually dressed in pink. Or perhaps Charles Edward--if that young man's artistic ability had been equal to his sense of it there would have been less danger in taking him into the factory. Or probably Maria, with her great head for business--oh, Maria, I grant you, is like what the French critic said of the prophet Habakkuk, “capable de tout.” But why puzzle any longer over that preposterous telegram? If my friend Talbert was in any kind of trouble under the sun, there was just one thing that I wanted--to get to him as quickly as possible. Find when the first train started and arrived--send a lucid despatch--no expensive parsimony in telegraphing: '“To Cyrus Talbert, Eastridge, Massachusetts: “I arrived this morning on the Dilatoria and found your telegram here. Expect me on the noon train due at Eastridge five forty-three this afternoon. I hope all will go well. Count on me always. Gerrit Wendell.” It was a relief to find him on the railway platform when the train rolled in, his broad shoulders as square as ever, his big head showing only a shade more of gray, a shade less of red, in its strawberry roan, his face shining with the welcome which he expressed, as usual, in humorous disguise. “Here you are,” he cried, “browner and thinner than ever! Give me that bag. How did you leave my friend the Shah of Persia?” “Better,” I said, stepping into the open carriage, “since he got on the water-wagon--uses nothing but Eastridge silver-plated ice-pitchers now.” “And my dear friend the Empress of China?” he asked, as he got in beside me. “She has recovered her digestion,” I answered, “due entirely to the abandonment of chop-sticks and the adoption of Eastridge knives and forks. But now it's my turn to ask a question. How are YOU?” “Well,” said he. “And the whole family is well, and we've all grown tremendously, but we haven't changed a bit, and the best thing that has happened to us for three years is seeing you again.” “And the factory?” I asked. “How does the business of metallic humbug thrive?” “All right,” he answered. “There's a little slackening in chafing-dishes just now, but ice-cream knives are going off like hot cakes. The factory is on a solid basis; hard times won't hurt us.” “Well, then,” said I, a little perplexed, “what in Heaven's name did you mean by sending that--”