swore at him eagerly and demanded every detail of what he called the
"fool plot of the thing."

"What does that female at the Stuffed Animal House say to the idea of
your writing a drama?" he asked contemptuously.

"She says I may read it to her."

"Knows as much about dramatic poetry as you do I suppose? When you
finish the first act bring it to me. I'll tell you how bad it is."

His eager scoffing betrayed him, and every Sunday night, in spite of
slaughtering criticism the boy took courage to talk of his poem. He
had no criticism from Mrs. Richie.

When he first began to call at the Stuffed Animal House she had been
coldly impatient, then uneasy then snubbing. But nothing can be so
obtuse as a boy; it never occurs to him that he is not wanted. Sam
continued to call and to tell her of his play and to look at her with
beautiful, tragic eyes, that by and by openly adored. Inevitably the
coldness to which he was so calmly impervious wore off; a boy's
innocent devotion must touch any woman no matter how self-absorbed she
may be. Mrs. Richie began to be glad to see him. As for his drama, it
was beautiful, she said.

"No," Sam told her, "it isn't--yet. You don't know. But I like to read
it to you, even if you don't." His candor made her laugh, and before
she knew it in spite of the difference in their years they were
friends As William King said, she was lonely, and Sam's devotion was
at least an interest. Besides, she really liked the boy; he amused