brown-haired, vivid girl, built on the slim lines of a wood nymph,
swing herself on to the banisters and slide the whole way down the
wide stairway would have been fit only for the
appreciative ears of his faithful man. As it was, Mrs. Nye, the
housekeeper, was passing through the hall, and her gasp at this
exhibition of unbecoming athletics was the least that could be
expected from one who still thought in the terms of the crinoline
and had never recovered from the habit of regarding life through the
early-Victorian end of the telescope.

Joan slipped into Mr. Cumberland Ludlow's own room, shut the door
quickly and picked her way over the great skins that were scattered
about the polished floor.

"Good morning, Grandfather," she said, and stood waiting for the
storm to break. She knew by heart the indignant remarks about the
sloppiness of the younger generation, the dire results of modern
anarchy and the universal disrespect that stamped the twentieth
century, and set her quick mind to work to frame his opening
sentence.

But the old man, whose sense of humor was as keen as ever, saw in
the girl's half-rebellious, half-deferential attitude an impatient
expectation of his usual irritation, and so he merely pointed a
shaking finger at the clock. His silence was far more eloquent and
effective than his old-fashioned platitudes. He smiled as he saw her
surprise, indicated a chair and gave her the morning paper. "Go
ahead, my dear," he said.

Sitting bolt upright, with her back to the shaded light, her