Alicia, the Atkins hopeful, rustled into the room.

"Papa," she said, "I've come to kiss you good night."

Her father performed the ceremony in a perfunctory way.

"All right, all right," he said. "Now run along to bed and don't bother
me, there's a good girl. I wish," he added testily to the housekeeper
who had followed Alicia into the room, "I wish you'd see to that loose
blind. It makes me nervous. Such things as that should be attended to
without specific orders from me."

The housekeeper promised to attend to the blind. She and the girl left
the library. Heman reread the Simpson letter. Then he dropped it in his
lap and sat thinking and twirling his eyeglasses at the end of their
black cord. His thoughts seemed to be not of the pleasantest. The lines
about his mouth had deepened during the last few months. He looked
older.

The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Atkins came out of his reverie
with a start, arose and walked across the room to the wall where the
instrument hung. It was before the days of the convenient desk 'phone.
He took the receiver from its hook and spoke into the transmitter.

"Hello!" he said. "Hello! Yes, yes! stop ringing. What is it?"

The wire buzzed and purred in the storm. "Hello!" said a voice. "Hello,
there! Is this Mr. Atkins's house?"