towards her husband. Then Floyd lighted one of his grandfather's cigars and settled himself by an open window. Deep in the story, he did not notice that his grandfather had left the room; he looked up with some surprise when Colonel Halket stood before him holding a card in his hand and saying,—
"Here it is, Floyd; here's the record. Edward Bell was a machinist in the company's employ; drew twenty-five dollars a week; he died two years ago. Good workman; thrifty; left wife and daughter comfortably off. They still live in the same house. The daughter a year ago obtained a position in the Halket Library, and has made a satisfactory record there. Now we know what sort of people they are; it seems all right, Rebecca."
"Yes, that part of it," answered his wife; and Colonel Halket turned and walked into the next room to restore the card to its place.
Floyd's thoughts lapsed for a few moments from his book. What an untiring assiduity his grandfather had in tracking down details! what a memory for trivialities, as well as for real matters! what a wonderful devotion, even in the pettiest affairs, to the idea of organization! It had oppressed Floyd to find since his return from college how complicated life in the household must be—not so far as family relations were concerned, for they had remained singularly natural and simple, but in the mere ordering of one's day. His grandfather seemed to have introduced an elaborate formality into the most ordinary performances, and to take pleasure in its observance; Mrs. Halket supported him in it, Floyd suspected, glancing at her pale face, loyally, but a little wearily. Colonel Halket, as Floyd began to understand, caused to be observed towards himself, even in his most secluded and private moments, the ceremonious deference that he deemed due to the first citizen of Avalon. What pleased his vanity had also honestly become to his mind a duty. Floyd had an uncomfortable sense at times that there
