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 that the Bee Master put in his library. What was good enough for him, is good enough for me, and while I read his books I’ll be thinking about him. One of the reasons I’m going to keep clean and walk straight and be decent like he was is because I’m going where he went, and we’re going to see what we can get out of Heaven together like we got a good deal of fun out of earth. And, oh, boy! I wish he knew how I miss him!”

In the house, before the telephone with a face sheet white, hanging to the instrument for support, shaking in every part of his being, shorn of his new-found strength, torn to the depths of his soul, stood Jamie. He had picked down the receiver and said, “Hello!” as casually as any man ever had said it, and then answered in the affirmative to the inquiry: “Is this James Lewis MacFarlane of the Sierra Madre Apiary?” Then the voice had continued: “You are wanted immediately and most imperatively at the Maternity Hospital, corner of Irolo and Seventeenth Streets.”

“Yes,” panted Jamie.

The voice went on: “Your wife last night gave birth to a fine son, but she is not reacting from the anæsthetic as she should, and we are growing alarmed. We found your address among her effects. Kindly see how quickly you can reach her. The probabilities are that she will be asking for you very shortly.”

Jamie hung up the receiver, picked up a pencil and wrote, “Irolo and Seventeenth Streets,” so that he would not forget. Then he reeled to the bedroom and began see-