t with a pencil attached, he held it out to her, touching
his ear as he uttered the one word "Deaf."

Rosalind understood she was to write her answer, and somewhat flurried she
sat down on the edge of the bench and with much deliberation and in large
clear letters conveyed the information, "She is out."

The old man looked at the tablet and then at Rosalind, bowing and smiling
as if well pleased. "You'll tell her I'm going to the city to-morrow?" he
asked.

There was something very queer in the way he opened his mouth and used his
tongue, Rosalind thought, as she nodded emphatically, feeling that this
singular individual had her at an unfair advantage. At least she would
find out who he was, and so, as she still held the tablet, she wrote,
"What is your name?"

He laughed as if this were a joke, and searching in his pocket, produced a
card which he presented with a bow. On it was printed "C.J. Morgan,
Cabinet Work."

"What is your name?" he asked.

Rosalind hesitated. She was not sure it at all concerned this stranger to
know her name, but as he stood smiling and waiting, she did not know how
to refuse; so she bent over the tablet, her yellow braid falling over her
shoulder, as she wrote, "Rosalind Patterson Whittredge."

"Mr. Pat's daughter?" There was a twinkle in the old man's eye, and
surprise and delight in his voice.

Rosalind sprang up, her own eyes shining. "How stupid of me!" she cried.
"Why, you must be the magician, and you have a funny old shop, where
father used to play when he was little. Oh, I hope you will let me come to
see you!" Suddenly remembering the tablet, she looked at it despairingly.
She couldn't write half she wished to say.

Morgan, however, seemed to understand pretty clearly, to judge from the
way he laughed and asked if Mr. Pat was well.

Rosalind nodded and wrote, "He has gone to Japan."

"So far? Coming home soon?"

With a mournful countenance she shook her head.

Morgan stood looking down on her with a smile that no longer seemed
uncanny. Indeed, there was something almost sweet in the rugged face as he
repeated, "Mr. Pat's little girl, well, well," as if it were quite
incredible.

Rosalind longed to ask at least a dozen questions, but it is dampening to
one's ardor to have to spell every word, and she only nodded and smiled in
her turn as she handed back the tablet.

"I wish father had taught me to talk on my fingers," she thought, feeling
that one branch of her educ