He waited eagerly for further information, but evidently his host considered he had furnished all the data necessary, for instead of enlarging on the subject he approached the bench and began to inspect the model. 

 "I s'pose, with her bein' here, you didn't get ahead much while I was gone," he ventured, an inflection of disappointment in his tone. 

 "No, I didn't." 

 "I didn't accomplish nothin', either," the little old man went on. "Jan warn't to home; he'd gone fishin'." 

 His companion did not reply at once. 

 "I don't quite get my soundin's on Jan," he at length ruminated aloud. "Somethin's wrong with him. I feel it in my bones." 

 "Perhaps not." 

 "There is, I tell you. I know Janoah Eldridge from crown to heel, an' it ain't like him to go off fishin' by himself." 

 "I shouldn't fret about it if I were you," Bob said in an attempt to comfort the disquieted inventor.  "I'm sure he'll turn up all right." 

 Had the conversation been of a three-master in a gale; of buried treasure; or of the ultimate salvation of the damned, the speaker would at that moment have been equally optimistic. 

 The universe had suddenly become too radiant a place to harbor calamity. Wilton was a paradise like the first Eden—a garden of smiles, of dimples, of blushing cheeks—and of silver buckles. 

 He began to whistle softly to himself; then, sensing that Willie was still unconvinced by his sanguine prediction, he added: 

 "And even if Mr. Eldridge shouldn't come back, I guess you and I could manage without him." 

 "That's all very well up to a certain point, youngster," was the retort.  "But who's goin' to see me through this job after you've taken wing?" 

 He pointed tragically to the beginnings of the model. 

 "Maybe I shan't take wing," announced Bob, looking absently at the cluster of withered roses in his hand.  "You—you see," he went on, endeavoring to speak in off-hand fashion, "I've been thinking things over and—and—I've about come to the conclusion—" 

 "Yes," 

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