A Court of Inquiry by Grece S. Richmond — Read

He lay back among the crimson pillows in his big chair, close beside the fire, with his eyes on the burning logs. A tablet and pen lay in his lap, and he had written a few paragraphs, but he was listening now to certain sounds which came from below stairs: voices, laughter, scurryings up and down the hall and staircase; then the slam of a heavy door, the tuneful ring of sleighbells in a rapid _decrescendo_ down the street, and absolute silence within the house. Three times in the last fifteen minutes before the door closed somebody had looked in upon the occupant of the big chair to say something like this:

"Oh, Jerry -- sorry we couldn't spend Nan's last evening with you. Too bad this wretched Van Antwerp dance had to come to-night -- Christmas Eve, too. Busy, aren't you, as usual? At work on those sketches of country life in winter? You clever boy -- who but you could make so much out of so little? Anything we can do for you before we are off? Nan hates to go, since it's the very last evening of her visit. She thought we all ought to give up and stay with you, but we told her you disliked to be 'babied. ' Well -- good-night, old fellow. Don't write too late. You know the doctor thinks plenty of sleep is part of your cure."