Mr. Gilmore lay back among his pillows and listened to the nurse's
listless voice. But he was watching me from under his heavy eyebrows,
for when the reading was over, and we were alone, he indicated the
picture with a gesture.

"I keep it there to remind myself that I am an old man," he said.
"That is my granddaughter, Alison West."

I expressed the customary polite surprise, at which, finding me
responsive, he told me his age with a chuckle of pride. More
surprise, this time genuine. From that we went to what he ate for
breakfast and did not eat for luncheon, and then to his reserve
power, which at sixty-five becomes a matter for thought. And so,
in a wide circle, back to where we started, the picture.

"Father was a rascal," John Gilmore said, picking up the frame.
"The happiest day of my life was when I knew he was safely dead in
bed and not hanged. If the child had looked like him, I--well, she
doesn't. She's a Gilmore, every inch. Supposed to look like me."

"Very noticeably," I agreed soberly.

I had produced the notes by that time, and replacing the picture Mr.
Gilmore gathered his spectacles from beside it. He went over the
four notes methodically, examining each carefully and putting it
down before he picked up the next. Then he leaned back and took off
his glasses.

"They're not so bad," he said thoughtfully. "Not so bad. But I
never saw them before. That's my unofficial signature. I am