She beamed at Ken, who looked happy and uncomfortable at once.
"I'm afraid I'm too unknown, sir," he said. "I—I never thought of such a thing."
"Perhaps," said the Maestro, with a smile, "the composer is sufficiently well known to make up for the author's lack of fame."
Ken's face grew a shade redder. "Of course," he stammered. "Oh, I beg your pardon."
"Then the permission is granted?"
Quite naturally, Ken granted it, with what he thought ill-worded thanks, and the Sturgises walked home across the meadow without knowing on what they trod.
"A real author!" Felicia said. "I told you that was n't a pome, when I first heard it."
But Ken chose to be severe and modest, and frowned on the "Toad Song"—as it was familiarly called—for a topic of conversation. And as weeks slid by, the whole affair was almost forgotten at Applegate Farm.
Those were weeks during which the Maestro, from the shadowy hero of Kirk's tales, became a very real part of this new life that was slowly settling to a familiar and loved ex-
