gentleman with the
spectacles, putting out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you, very glad,
indeed. I read your letters with the greatest pleasure."

Mr. Wetherell, as he took Mr. Duncan's hand, had a variety of emotions
which may be imagined, and need not be set down in particular.

"Funny thing," Mr. Merrill continued, "I was looking for you, Duncan. It
occurred to me that you would like to meet Mr. Wetherell. I was afraid
you were in Boston."

"I have just got back," said Mr. Duncan.

"I wanted Wetherell to see your library. I was telling him about it."

"I should be delighted to show it to him," answered Mr. Duncan. That
library, as is well known, was a special weakness of Mr. Duncan's.

Poor William Wetherell, who was quite overwhelmed by the fact that the
great Mr. Duncan had actually read his letters and liked them, could
scarcely utter a sensible word. Almost before he realized what had
happened he was following Mr. Duncan out of the Pelican House, when the
storekeeper was mystified once more by a nudge and another wink from Mr.
Bixby, conveying unbounded admiration.

"Why don't you write a book, Mr. Wetherell?" inquired the railroad
president, when they were crossing the park.

"I don't think I could do it," said Mr. Wetherell, modestly. Such incense
was overpowering, and he immediately forgot Mr. Bixby.

"Yes, you can," said Mr. Duncan, "only you don't know it. Take your
letters for a beginning. You can draw people well enough, when you try.
There was your description of the lonely hill-farm on the spur--I shall
always remember that: the gaunt farmer, toiling every minute between sun
and sun; the thin, patient woman bending to a task that never charged or
lightened; the children growing up and leaving one by one, some to the
cities, some to the West, until the old people are left alone in the
evening of life--to the sunsets and the storms. Of course you must write
a book."

Mr. Duncan quoted other letters, and William Wetherell thrilled. Poor
man! he had had little enough incense in his time, and none at all from
the great. They came to the big square house with the cornice which
Cynthia had seen the day before, and walked across the lawn through the
open door. William Wetherell had a glimpse of a great drawing-room with
high windows, out of which was wafted the sound of a piano and of
youthful voice and laughter, and then he was in the library. The thought
of one man owning all those books overpowered h