. . .Supper am sarved, little Mis'," Rufus announced from the hack door, as I stood still looking and listening into the night.

"Uncle Cradd," I asked eagerly at the end of the food prayer that the old gentleman had offered after seating me with ceremony behind a steaming silver coffee urn of colonial pattern, of which I had heard all my life, "who is that remarkable man?"

CHAPTER III

"Si Beesley? Spare rib, dear?" was his disappointing but hospitable, answer in two return questions to my anxious inquiries about the Pan who had come out of the woods at my need.

"No; I mean—mean, didn't you call him Adam?"

"Nobody knows. Now, William, a spare rib and a muffin is real nourishment after the nightingale's tongues and snails you've been living on for twenty-odd years, isn't it?" As he spoke Uncle Cradd beamed on father, who was eating with the first show of real pleasure in food since we had had to send Henri back to New York, af. . . Read More