"I'm afraid that's what they say out there, too. He is not a practical man, and he seems to have paid very little attention to the making of money, or--what is more--to the keeping of it after he had made it." Drusilla smiled. "That's just like John," she said softly. "Set him down somewhere with a book and he'd forgit that there was other things he ought to be doin' instead of readin'. He worked in Silas Graham's grocery store when he was a boy, and Silas had to keep pryin' him out from behind the barrels to wait on customers. Silas said when he let him go that John's business was clerkin' in a book store and not a grocery store. Well, well! John's just the same, I guess. He'd ought to had some one with common sense to keep him goin'." "Is there anything else you would like to know?" "No--" said Drusilla hesitatingly. "I guess that's all I need to know." She was quiet for a few moments. Then: "Does he seem strong?" "Yes; strong and well." "D'ye suppose he could travel by himself?" "Certainly; he seems perfectly able to travel by himself." "Then I guess I'll write him a letter. That's all, and I thank you very much, young man. I suppose you have a lot more on them papers, but I know all I want to. Good day." A few days after Drusilla's interview with the clerk, John Brierly received a letter in the handwriting that, although a little feeble, was still familiar to him. He took it home from the post-office and did not break the seal until he was in his sitting-room. Then he read it. DEAR JOHN: I jest heard where you are and how you are. You are alone and I'm alone. We are both two old ships that have sailed the seas alone and now we're nearing port. Why can't we make the rest of the voyage together? I have a home a great deal too big for one lone woman, and you have no home at all. Years ago your home would have been mine if you could a give it to me, and now I want to share mine with you. I'm not proposing to you, John; we're too old to think of such things, but I do want to die with my hand in some one's who cares for me and who I care for. You're the only one in all the world that's left from out my past, and I want you near me. Won't you come and see me? Then we can talk it over, and if you don't like it here you can go back. Come to me, John. Let me hear by the next mail that you're a coming. DRUSILLA. P. S. If you don't come to me, I'll come to you. This is a threat, John. You see if I _am_ seventy years old, I'm still your wilful Drusilla. Drusilla doubtless would have passed the next few days anxiously awaiting an answer to her letter if an unforeseen occurrence had not driven all thoughts of it from her head. Some one had told the newspapers about the baby left on her doorstep, and that she had refused to send it to the police, and one morning great headlines stared her in the face: DRUSILLA DOANE A TRUE PHILANTHROPIST. Again she saw her picture and the picture of the house in Brookvale, and read: