"But—oh, Stanley, how could you?" she shivered, her eyes on the words the millionaire had penciled on the brown paper covering of the parcel.

Sacred to the memory of John Smith.

"Open it," directed the man.

With obvious reluctance Miss Maggie loosened the paper covers and peered within. The next moment she gave a glad cry.

In her hands lay a handsome brown leather volume with gold letters, reading:—

The Blaisdell Family
By
John Smith

"And you—did that?" she asked, her eyes luminous.

"Yes. I shall send a copy each to Frank and Jim and Miss Flora, of course. That's the monument. I thought it due—Mr. John Smith. Poor man, it's the least I can do for him—and the most—unless—" He hesitated with an unmistakable look of embarrassment.

"Yes," prompted Miss Maggie eagerly. "Yes!"

"Well, unless—I let you take me to Hillerton one of these days and see if—if Stanley G. Fulton, with your gracious help, can make peace for John Smith with those—er—cousins of mine. You see, I still feel confoundedly like that small boy at the keyhole, and I'd like—to open that door! Could we do it, do you think?"

"Do it? Of course we could! And, oh, Stanley, it's the one thing needed to make me perfectly happy," she sighed blissfully.

* * *