't know, Cap'n Lote," he observed. "Sounds
to me a good deal like lettin' in a hurricane to blow out a match with.
. . . Um-hm. Seems so to me. Yes, yes."

Mr. Kendall's calls would have been more frequent still had Helen not
interfered. Very often, when he came she herself dropped in a little
later and insisted upon his making an early start for home. Occasionally
she came with him. She, too, seemed much interested in the progress of
the stories, but she offered few suggestions. When directly appealed to,
she expressed her views, and they were worth while.

Albert was resolutely adhering to his determination not to permit
himself to think of her except as a friend. That is, he hoped he was;
thoughts are hard to control at times. He saw her often. They met on the
street, at church on Sunday--his grandmother was so delighted when he
accompanied her to "meeting" that he did so rather more frequently,
perhaps, than he otherwise would--at the homes of acquaintances, and, of
course, at the Snow place. When she walked home with her father after a
"story evening" he usually went with them as additional escort.

She had not questioned him concerning Madeline since their first meeting
that morning at the parsonage. He knew, therefore, that some one--his
grandmother, probably--had told her of the broken engagement. When
they were alone together they talked of many things, casual things, the
generalities of which, so he told himself, a conversation between mere
friends was composed. But occasionally, after doing escort duty, after
Mr. Kendall had gone into the house to take his "throat medicine"--a
medicine which Captain Zelotes declared would have to be double-strength
pretty soon to offset the wear and tear of the story evenings--they
talked of matters more specific and which more directly concerned
themselves. She spoke of her hospital work, of her teaching before the
war, and of her plans for the future. The latter, of course, were very
indefinite now.

"Father needs me," she said, "and I shall not leave him while he lives."

They spoke of Albert's work and plans most of all. He began to ask for
advice concerning the former. When those stories were written, what
then? She hoped he would try the novel he had hinted at.

"I'm sure you can do it," she said. "And you mustn't give up the poems
altogether. It was the poetry, you know, which was the beginning."

"YOU were the beginning," he said impulsively. "Perhaps I should