rather a pleased mood. The old gentleman stood patting and alining a pile of manuscript. As the mulatto entered he exclaimed:
“Well, here's Peter again!” as if his secretary had been off on a long journey. Immediately afterward he added, “Peter, guess what I did last night.” His voice was full of triumph.
Peter was thinking about Aunt Rose, and stood looking at the Captain without the slightest idea.
“I wrote all of this,”—he indicated his manuscript,—“over a hundred pages.”
Peter considered the work without much enthusiasm.
“You must have worked all night.”
The old attorney rubbed his hands.
“I think I may claim a touch of inspiration last night, Peter. Reminiscences rippled from under my pen, propitious words, prosperous sentences. Er—the fact is, Peter, you will see, when you begin copying, I had come to a matter—a—a matter of some moment in my life. Every life contains such moments, Peter. I had meant to write something in the nature of a defen—an explanation, Peter. But after you left the library last night it suddenly occurred to me just to give each fact as it took place, quite frankly. So I did that—not—not what I meant to write, at all—ah. As you copy it, you may find it not entirely without some interest to yourself, Peter.”
“To me?” repeated Peter, after the fashion of the unattentative.
