*

Janet Bagley, with the look of a stricken animal, sat down heavily. There
were two thoughts suddenly in her mind: _Now I've got to leave_, and,
_But I can't leave_.

She sat looking at the boy, trying to make sense of what he had said.
Mrs. Bagley was a young woman, but she had lived a demanding and
unrelenting life; her husband dead, her finances calamitous, a baby to
feed and raise ... there had been enough trouble in her life and she
sought no more.

But she was also a woman of some strength of character.

Janet Bagley had not been able to afford much joy, but when things were
at their worst she had not wept. She had been calm. She had taken what
inexpensive pleasures she could secure--the health of her daughter, the
strength of her arms to earn a living, the cunning of her mind to make a
dollar do the work of five. She had learned that there was no bargain
that was not worth investigating; the shoddiest goods were worth owning
at a price; the least attractive prospect had to be faced and understood,
for any commodity becomes a bargain when the price is right. There was
no room for laziness or indulgence in her life. There was also no room
for panic.

So Janet Bagley thought for a moment, and then said: "Tell me what you're
talking about, James."

James Holden said immediately: "I am Charles Maxwell. That is, 'Charles
Maxwell' is a pen name. He has no other existence."

"But--"

"But it's true, Mrs. Bagley," the boy said earnestly. "I'm only eight
years old, but I happen to be earning my own living--as a writer, under
the name of, among others, Charles Maxwell. Perhaps you've looked up some
of the 'Charles Maxwell' books? If so, you may have seen some of the book
reviews that were quoted on the jackets--I remember one that said that
Charles Maxwell writes as though he himself were a boy, with the
education of an adult. Well, that's the fact of the case."

Mrs. Bagley said slowly, "But I did look Mr. Max--I mean, I did look you
up. There was a complete biographical sketch in _Woman's Life_.
Thirty-one years old, I remember."

"I know. I wrote it. It too was fiction."

"You wrote--but why?"

"Because I was asked to write it," said James.

"But, well--what I mean, is--Just who is Mr. Maxwell? The man at the
station said something about a hermit, but--"

"The Hermit of Martin's Hill is a convenient character carefully prepared
to explain what might have looked like a very odd household," said Ja