mes, to become rather enthusiastic. "Even if I
didn't want him to make music of his own," he told Felicia, "I couldn't
stop him. So I supply the bricks and mortar for the foundation. He might
as well build his little tunes rightly from the beginning. He will go
far--yes, far. It is sheer harmony." And the Maestro would sigh deeply,
and nod his fine head.

Ken, remembering these words with some awe, studied his brother's face,
through the pane, and then came quietly in at the door. Kirk left his
tune unfinished, and launched himself in the direction of Ken, who
scooped him into his arms.

"Do you know, Phil," Ken said, voicing at once the thought he had felt
all the way up Winterbottom Road; "do you know, I think, after all, this
is the very best thing we could have done."

"What?" Phil asked, not being a mind-reader.

"_This_," Ken said, sweeping his arm about the lamplit room. "This
place. We thought it was such a horrible mistake, at first. It _was_ a
sort of venture to take."

"A happy venture," Felicia murmured, bending over her sewing. "But it
wouldn't have been so happy if the defender of his kindred hadn't slaved
on the high seas 'for to maintain his brither and me,' like _Henry
Martin_ in the ballad."

"Oh, fiddlestick!" said Ken. "Who wants to loaf around? Speaking of
loaf, I'm hungry."

"Supper's doing itself on the stove," Phil said. "Look lively with the
table, Kirk."

Kirk did so,--his efficiency as a table-setter had long since been
proved,--and Ken, as the weary breadwinner, stretched out in a chair.

"Did you happen to remember," said Felicia, coming to the door, spoon in
hand, "that the Kirk has a birthday this week?"

"It _has_?" exclaimed Ken. "I say, I'd forgotten."

"It's going to be nine; think of that!" said Phil. "Woof! My kettle's
boiling over!" She made a hasty exit, while Ken collared his brother and
looked him over.

"Who'd ha' thunk it!" he said. "Well, well, what's to be done about
this?"

"Lots," said Felicia, suddenly appearing with the supper. "_Lots!_"

CHAPTER XI

THE NINE GIFTS

Two evenings later, Ken confronted his sister at the foot of the stairs
as she came down from seeing Kirk to bed.

"Where," said Ken, "is your Braille slate?"

"_What_," said Felicia, "do you want with a Braille slate, if I may
ask?"

"You mayn't," said Ken, conclusively.

"But it makes a difference," Phil argued. "If you want to write Braille
with it,--which seems unlikely,