her the
Consolidated Bank would remember the day specified, and whether it would
mean anything important to her.

She carried the dusters back to Katy, and going to her room,
concentrated resolutely upon her work; but she Was unable to do anything
constructive. Her routine lessons she could prepare, but she could not
even sketch a wild rose accurately. Finally she laid down her pencil,
washed her brushes, put away her material, and locking her door, slipped
the key into her pocket. Going down to the garage she climbed into the
Bear Cat and headed straight for Peter Morrison. She drove into his
location and blew the horn. Peter stepped from the garage, and seeing
her, started in her direction. Linda sprang down and hurried toward
him. He looked at her intently as she approached and formed his own
conclusions.

"Sort of restless," said Linda. "Couldn't evolve a single new idea with
which to enliven the gay annals of English literature and Greek history.
A personal history seems infinitely more insistent and unusual. I ran
away from my lessons, and my work, and came to you, Peter, because I had
a feeling that there was something you could give me, and I thought you
would."

Peter smiled a slow curious smile.

"I like your line of thought, Linda," he said quietly. "It greatly
appeals to me. Any time an ancient and patriarchal literary man named
Peter Morrison can serve as a rock upon which a young thing can rest,
why he'll be glad to be that rock."

"What were you doing?" asked Linda abruptly.

"Come and see," said Peter.

He led the way to the garage. His worktable and the cement floor around
it were littered with sheets of closely typed paper.

"I'll have to assemble them first," said Peter, getting down on his
knees and beginning to pick them up.

Linda sat on a packing case and watched him. Already she felt comforted.
Of course Peter was a rock, of course anyone could trust him, and of
course if the tempest of life beat upon her too strongly she could
always fly to Peter.

"May I?" she inquired, stretching her hand in the direction of a sheet.

"Sure," said Peter.

"What is it?" inquired Linda lightly. "The bridge or the road or the
playroom?"

"Gad!" he said slowly. "Don't talk about me being a rock! Rocks are
stolid, stodgy unresponsive things. I thought I was struggling with
one of the biggest political problems of the day from an economic and
psychological standpoint. If I'd had sense enough to rea