profound yawn, and sat down to her frugal meal, when her father
mystified me considerably by remarking:

"You're late to-night, chick. Have the Shepherd Kings been giving
trouble?"

"No," she replied; "but I thought I might as well get them done. So I
dropped in at the Ormond Street library on my way home and finished
them."

"Then they are ready for stuffing now?"

"Yes." As she answered she caught my astonished eye (for a stuffed
Shepherd King is undoubtedly a somewhat surprising phenomenon) and
laughed softly.

"We mustn't talk in riddles like this," she said, "before Doctor
Berkeley, or he will turn us both into pillars of salt. My father is
referring to my work," she explained to me.

"Are you a taxidermist, then?" I asked.

She hastily set down the cup that she was raising to her lips and broke
into a ripple of quiet laughter.

"I am afraid my father has misled you with his irreverent expressions.
He will have to atone by explaining."

"You see, Doctor," said Mr. Bellingham, "Ruth is a literary searcher--"