and waking, resting and working, a plan was formulating itself
in the brain just roused from its six months' apathy,--a novel,
astonishing, enchanting, revolutionary plan, which she bided her time
to disclose.

The opportunity came one evening after dinner, when Mrs. Bird, and her
brother, Edgar and herself, were gathered in the library.

The library was a good place in which to disclose plans, or ask advice,
or whisper confidences. The great carved oak mantel held on the broad
space above the blazing logs the graven motto, "Esse Quod Opto." The
walls were lined with books from floor half-way to ceiling, and from
the tops of the cases Plato, Socrates, Marcus Aurelius, and the Sage of
Concord looked down with benignant wisdom. The table in the centre was
covered with a methodical litter of pamphlets and magazines, and a soft
light came from the fire and from two tall, shaded lamps.

Mr. Bird, as was his wont, leaned back in his leather chair, puffing
delicate rings of smoke into the air. Edgar sat by the centre table,
idly playing with a paper-knife. Mrs. Bird sat in her low
rocking-chair with a bit of fancy-work, and Polly, on the hearth rug,
leaned cosily back against her Fairy Godmother's knees.

The clinging tendrils in Polly's nature, left hanging so helplessly
when her mother was torn away, reached out more and more to wind
themselves about lovely Mrs. Bird, who, notwithstanding her three manly
sons, had a place in her heart left sadly vacant by the loss of her
only daughter.

Polly broke one of the pleasant silences. An open fire makes such
delightful silences, if you ever noticed. When you sit in a room
without it, the gaps in the conversation make everybody seem dull; the
last comer rises with embarrassment and thinks he must be going, and
you wish that some one would say the next thing and keep the ball
rolling. The open fire arranges all these little matters with a
perfect tact and grace all its own. It is acknowledged to be the
centre of attraction, and the people gathered about it are only
supernumeraries. It blazes and crackles and snaps cheerily, the logs
break and fall, the coals glow and fade and glow again, and the dull
man can always poke the fire if his wit desert him. Who ever feels
like telling a precious secret over a steam-heater?

Polly looked away from everybody and gazed straight into the blaze.

"I have been thinking over a plan for my future work," she said, "and I
want to