Marjorie was laughing as she resumed her seat at the study table. She was quick to understand the purpose of Jerry’s ridiculous and elaborate objections to her really sincere words concerning Hal. Her flash of self-conscious embarrassment had vanished in quick amusement of Jerry’s remarks.

“These are letters to Brooke Hamilton from friends,” she explained as she shoved the two packs across the table to Jerry.

“He must have been right in line for a popularity prize.” Jerry eyed the tightly-bound, thick stacks of letters with comical respect.

“They represent the correspondence of only four or five men. Each letter isn’t from a different person, my child,” Marjorie said lightly. “Your job is to put the letters of each person in separate piles. You may have that end of the table all to yourself.”

“I get you, Bean.” Jerry energetically gathered up the two packs of letters and moved with them to the upper end of the table. “Watch my speed, my efficiency, my celostrous usefulness. By the way, my new word is on the gain. I’ve persuaded Jonas to use it, Miss Susanna thinks well of it and Leila says it is clever enough to be Irish.”

“It’s a good imitation. Celostrous—sounds like a real word, even though it isn’t,” laughingly commented Marjorie.

“Sh-h-h. Somebody might hear you.” Jerry held up a cautioning finger. She cast a roguish smile toward a vividly handsome face which looked down at her from a portrait on the wall. It was the face of Brooke Hamilton. Life-size and life-like the deep blue eyes seemed almost to twinkle an answer to Jerry’s mischievous smile as she continued to gaze at the portrait.

“He’s so real.” Marjorie turned her head over one shoulder to glance up at the pictured face of a strong man in the noon of manhood. A friendly smile played upon her lips. “I hope you haven’t minded my sitting with my back to you this afternoon, Mr. Brooke,” she apologized.

“If that was a magic portrait this is the way it would be. ‘Then the enchanted portrait spoke from the wall and said: “Don’t mention it, beautiful Bean. Go as far as you like. Even the back of your head is an inspiration to me. I can never be grateful enough to you for writing my biography. How is your friend, Miss Macy? She is a lovely girl and I—”’”

“Jeremiah, you disrespecter of great persons!” Marjorie sprang from her chair and made a frolicsome pounce upon Jerry. “Stop it this minute.”

The two tussled gently for a brief instant, then fell laughingly apart. The blue eyes of the man in the portrait seemed almost to be watching the merry conflict.

“You see how utterly you disrupt serious work,” Marjorie pointed out severely. “I have half a mind to take the job I gave you away from you.”

“You can’t. I have it cinched.” Jerry snatched up the two packs of letters and tucked one under each arm. “I love the job. I’ll do better, Bean. I promise on my sacred Jeremiah honor.”

“I haven’t the heart to take those letters away from you,” Marjorie jestingly conceded.

“Glad of it. Kindly don’t bother me. I am going to give a violent demonstration of the word ‘work.’ It’s three o’clock now.” Jerry peered down at the tiny open-face, necklace watch she wore about her neck on a fine-linked platinum chain.

“I knew it was nearly three. I’ve learned to tell time by the sun since I came to the Arms and began my work here.” There was no timepiece in the study, nor would Marjorie wear a watch when she came into it to work. She did not wish to reckon her daily faithful application to the biography by time. She liked to lose herself in the thought that all time was hers in which to do Brooke Hamilton’s memory honor.

Jerry followed her announcement of industry by a business-like attack upon one of the packs of letters. Soon she was deep in carrying out Marjorie’s directions. Marjorie resumed a reading of the paper in which she had been engrossed when Jerry had entered. It was a dissertation on democracy in Brooke Hamilton’s fine, clear hand.

Silence took up its reign in the study. Marjorie was deep in the dissertation. Oblivious to all else Jerry interestedly sorted letters, reading pertinent snatches of them. Neither saw the sliding panel in the back wall of the study begin to move slowly. Neither saw Miss Susanna’s head appear in the opened square.

For fully a minute the old lady watched the industrious pair with brooding, tender eyes. She had thought Marjorie alone in the study and had come to her by the secret entrance in the same spirit of play which had prompted Jerry to use the sliding panel. In one hand were three letters for Marjorie which Jonas had just brought from the mail box at the main gates of the Arms.

As soundlessly as she had appeared in the secret doorway the visitant disappeared. In noiseless obedience to her touch the panel slid once more into place. Miss Susanna trotted down the long hall and on down the wide staircase. Her small face was illumined by a bright smile. She looked as though she had suddenly discovered the world-sought secret of happiness.

She continued on out the massive front door, down the steps and across the lawn to where Jonas was clipping long sprays of furry pussy willows for the two tall Chinese vases at each end of the sitting room mantel.

“You ought to see them, Jonas,” she burst out happily. “They’re both in the study, lost to the world among Uncle Brooke’s papers. I came away without their knowing I saw them. I couldn’t bear to disturb his helpers, Jonas. And I once thought no one but the president of Hamilton College was fitted to write his biography!”

“Strange things happen, Miss Susanna.” Jonas’s silver head wagged itself solemnly over the huge bunch of pussy willows he was holding. “He’d be better pleased, though, to have things as they are now. I believe he’d rather the little girl would write his story.”

Jonas invariably spoke of Brooke Hamilton as one alive, but traveling in a far country, rather than of a man who had passed from earth.

“I think so, too, Jonas.” The instant, eager response brought a pleased gleam to the old man’s eyes. “He founded Hamilton College for the higher education of girls. It seems as though Hamilton has at last shown appreciation of him by raising up a student after his own heart. That student is Marjorie Dean.” She paused, apparently taken with her own fancy. She added sturdily: “All the more reason why she should be the one to write his biography.”