A long, thin arm, extended from the step above, thrust Barbara vigorously in the side. In the dusk the action was hidden from the visitor, but Barbara knew well its purport She was being enjoined to tell nothing to Miss Bates. “Our appetites for meat seem to be falling off this hot weather,” she returned guardedly. “Of course it’s a lot cheaper to live that way,” said the visitor. “Saves cooking, too. And you won’t have time to do much cooking if all these reports I hear of your starting a benevolent society are true.” There was no response from Barbara. “If you’re thinking of going into club-work, you’d better join our lodge,—the Ancient Neighbors. Maybe you’d be elected to office. Mrs. Beebe, the old Royal Ranger, resigned three months ago, and Miss Homer, the new one, ain’t giving satisfaction. She don’t seem to be capable of learning the ritual. She got the meeting open last night, and forgot what came next, and had to send for Mrs. Beebe to get it shut. If you have any memory for rituals, Barbara, maybe I could get you in for office.” Barbara murmured her thanks. “I haven’t much time for club-work, though, now,” she said. “I have,” said a small voice. Gassy’s fist, inclosing an imaginary missile, shook in the direction of the unconscious visitor. “I expect that your literary work takes up most of your time.” Barbara caught her breath sharply. How much had that dreadful woman heard? “Of course you may not _be_ writing, but I have had my suspicions about it, since I met you with that fat envelope with the Century Company’s stamp, a week ago. I knew that you had done a bit of writing at school, and I put two and two together, and said to myself, ‘Barbara Grafton’s gone to writing.’ I couldn’t help wondering if the ‘Century’ had taken it, or sent it back. Of course, being an author myself, I’m always interested in budding genius. What is it, Barbara, poetry or fiction?” Out of the shadow of the porch vines came Gassy’s sharp little voice. “Jack cut _your_ poetry out of the paper this morning, Miss Bates,” she said. “Did he?” said Miss Bates, delightedly. “I didn’t know Jack was so appreciative as that. I’m afraid the poetry wasn’t as good as some I have written. But I felt it—every word of it—when I wrote it. And I suppose Jack liked its tone of sincerity. That is my highest ambition: not to win fame or money, but to be cut out and carried in the vest-pocket.” “He said,” giggled Gassy, from behind the vines, “that he couldn’t have the sanctity of the home invaded,”—the imitation of Jack’s inflection was perfect,—“an’ that he wouldn’t suffer our minds,—David’s and mine, he meant,—to be c’rrupted, so he cut it out; but I think he sent it to mother. We always save all the funny things for her, to cheer her up, now she’s sick.”