the name of that one; I must be sure to remember it."

Politeness certainly demanded that Sylvia should answer; and now that
the minister plied her with questions, her own interest was aroused, and
she led him back and forth across the starry lanes, describing in the
most artless fashion her own method of remembering the names and
positions of the constellations. As their range of vision on the veranda
was circumscribed, Ware suggested that they step down upon the lawn to
get a wider sweep, a move which attracted the attention of the others.

"Sylvia, be careful of the wet. Josephus just moved the sprinkler and
that ground is soaked."

"Don't call attention to our feet; our heads are in the stars," answered
Ware. "I must tell the Indian boys on the Nipigon about this," he said
to Sylvia as they returned to the veranda. "I didn't know anybody knew
as much as you do. You make me ashamed of myself."

"You needn't be," laughed Sylvia. "Very likely most that I've told you
is wrong. I'm glad grandfather didn't hear me."

The admiral and Professor Kelton were launched upon a fresh exchange of
reminiscences and the return of Ware and Sylvia did not disturb them. It
seemed, however, that Ware was a famous story-teller, and when he had
lighted a fresh cigar he recounted a number of adventures, speaking in
his habitual, dry, matter-of-fact tone, and with curious unexpected
turns of phrase. Conversation in Indiana seems to drift into
story-telling inevitably. John Ware once read a paper before the
Indianapolis Literary Club to prove that this Hoosier trait was derived
from the South. He drew a species of ellipsoid of which the Ohio River