months later the elk had to be destroyed. In a fit of exceptional
moroseness it had killed the Bickelbys' German governess. It was an
irony of its fate that it should achieve popularity in the last moments
of its career; at any rate, it established, the record of being the only
living thing that had permanently thwarted Teresa Thropplestance's plans.

Dora Yonelet broke off her engagement with an Indian civilian, and
married Bertie three months after his grandmother's death--Teresa did not
long survive the German governess fiasco. At Christmas time every year
young Mrs. Thropplestance hangs an extra large festoon of evergreens on
the elk horns that decorate the hall.

"It was a fearsome beast," she observes to Bertie, "but I always feel
that it was instrumental in bringing us together."

Which, of course, was true.

"DOWN PENS"

"Have you written to thank the Froplinsons for what they sent us?" asked
Egbert.

"No," said Janetta, with a note of tired defiance in her voice; "I've
written eleven letters to-day expressing surprise and gratitude for
sundry unmerited gifts, but I haven't written to the Froplinsons."

"Some one will have to write to them," said Egbert.

"I don't dispute the necessity, but I don't think the some one should be
me," said Janetta. "I wouldn't mind writing a letter of angry
recrimination or heartless satire to some suitable recipient; in fact, I
should rather enjoy it, but I've come to the end of my capacity for
expressing servile amiability. Eleven letters to-day and nine yesterday,
all couched in the same strain of ecstatic thankfulness: really, you
can't expect me to sit down to another. There is such a thing as writing
oneself out."

"I've written nearly as many," said Egbert, "and I've had my usual
business correspondence to get through, too. Besides, I don't know what
it was that the Froplinsons sent us."

"A William the Conqueror calendar," said Janetta, "with a quotation of
one of his great thoughts for every day in the year."

"Impossible," said Egbert; "he didn't have three hundred and sixty-five
thoughts in the whole of his life, or, if he did, he kept them to
himself. He was a man of action, not of introspection."

"Well, it was William Wordsworth, then," said Janetta; "I know William
came into it somewhere."

"That sounds more probable," said Egbert; "well, let's collaborate on
this letter of thanks and get it done. I'll dictate, and you can
scribble i