ibrary, reading a page here and a line there, the
lights and shadows that crossed his eager, absorbed face, an index of
his enjoyment.

All this had been spoiled by a wild, untamed colt of a boy whom he could
not help liking in spite of his peculiarities.

And yet, was his sister not right? Why bother himself any more about a
man so explosive and so tactless--and he WAS a man, so far as years and
stature went, who, no matter what he might attempt for his advancement,
would as surely topple it over as lie would a house of cards. That the
boy's ideals were high, and his sincerity beyond question, was true, but
what use would these qualities be to him if he lacked the common-sense
to put them into practice?

All this he told to the fire--first to one little heap of coals--then
another--snuggling together--and then to the big back-log scarred all
over in its fight to keep everybody warm and happy.

Suddenly his round, glistening head ceased bobbing back and forth; his
lips, which had talked incessantly without a sound falling from them,
straightened; his gesticulating fingers tightened into a hard knot and
the old fellow rose from his easy-chair. He had made up his mind.

Then began a search through his desk in and out of the pigeon-holes,
under a heap of letters--most of them unanswered; beneath a package
tied with tape, until his eyes fell upon an envelope sealed with wax,
in which was embedded the crest of the ancestors of the young gentleman
whose future had so absorbed his thoughts. It was Mrs. Breen's
acceptance of Miss Felicia's invitation to Miss MacFarlane's tea.

"Ah, here it is! Now I'll find the number--yes, 864--I thought it was a
"4"--but I didn't want to make any mistake."

This done, and the note with the number and street of Jack's uncle's
house spread out before him, Peter squared his elbows, took a sheet of
paper from a drawer, covered it with half a dozen lines beginning "My
dear Breen--" enclosed it in an envelope and addressed it to "Mr. John
Breen, care of Arthur Breen, Esq.," etc. This complete, he affixed the
stamp in the upper left-hand corner, and with the letter fast in his
hand disappeared in his bedroom, from which he emerged ten minutes later
in full walking costume, even to his buckskin gloves and shiny high
hat, not to mention a brand-new silk scarf held in place by his diamond
tear-drop, the two in high relief above the lapels of his tightly
buttoned surtout.

"No, Mrs. McGuffey,"