Josh's frown deepened as he considered this. So Richard was going to take her to the theater, was he?

"Excuse me," Bellwood said from the doorway. "Luncheon is served."

Josh rose to follow Felicity out into the hall, but he paused as he passed Bellwood, letting Felicity go on ahead. "Tell me, Bellwood, what does a gentleman wear to the theater in Philadelphia?"

Bellwood's inscrutable expression wavered just a bit. "Why, evening clothes, Mr. Logan."

Josh chewed on this a moment.

"Excuse me, sir," Bellwood said, lowering his voice. "I couldn't help but notice your wardrobe does not include evening attire. I could perhaps recommend a tailor."

"Perhaps you'd better," Josh allowed wryly.

"If you wish, I can call for the carriage this afternoon to take you to Mr. Maxwell's personal tailor," Bellwood offered.

But Josh shook his head. He didn't need clothes that fancy. "Just any average tailor will do," he said.

"Excuse me, sir," Bellwood contradicted. "If you want to go to the theater with Mr. Winthrop and your wife, you had best go to Mr. Maxwell's tailor and tell them you are his grandson-in-law. That is the only way your clothes will be ready on time."

Josh frowned, hating the very idea of trading on Henry Maxwell's name for a favor.

Bellwood seemed to sense his reluctance. He sweetened the pot a little. "I believe you'll find that Mr. Maxwell's tailor is also the most reasonable in town as regards to price. That is why Mr. Maxwell selected him. It is one of the character traits that has made Mr. Maxwell so wealthy a man," he added with a twinkle.

Josh shook his head in wonder at the butler. "All right, Bellwood. Call up the carriage after lunch."

Henry Maxwell fidgeted uncharacteristically with the bedclothes as he waited for his visitor's opinion. "Well, what do you think, Alex?" he demanded after several minutes.

Alexander Evans, a man who had made a fortune in the shipping business, took his time answering. He examined the photograph in his hands a while longer, his gray head bent close, and then he picked up another picture and compared the two. "They're remarkable, Henry," he decreed at last.

"What do you mean, 'remarkable'?" Henry asked suspiciously.

"I mean, they are excellent. Take the picture of this woman, for example," Alex said, showing Henry the portrait of Blanche Delano. "Look at the way she's posed."

Henry sniffed in disapproval. "She looks like a tart."

"Exactly," Alex said. "See the way her body is positioned? The way her hands are folded? The expression on her face? There's nothing indiscreet about any one detail of the picture, but the observer receives the impression of a woman who is… uh, shall we say, not averse to having a good time?"

"And these cowboys," Alex continued, finding several other examples to illustrate his point. "Most of them are young boys who are bound to be self-conscious before a camera, but your granddaughter has managed to capture their personalities in natural settings, rather than the traditional stiffly posed portrait. It's absolutely remarkable." Then he looked more closely at the pictures and frowned. "Hmmmm," he mused.

"And what does 'hmmmm' mean?" Henry asked in irritation.

"Are you certain that the little girl I saw downstairs really took these photographs?"

Henry scowled. "Don't you think she could have?"

Alex shrugged. "She's awfully young. And look at the quality of these prints. Why, the plates were prepared with the hand of an expert. There's hardly a bump or bubble visible in the whole lot. Perhaps these are really the work of her father, and she lied to you to impress you. You couldn't blame her for that," he ventured apologetically.

"Impossible," Henry decreed. "Besides, all these people are Logan's friends and neighbors. She didn't even meet him until after her father was dead. There's no way Storm could have taken these photographs."

Alex shook his head in wonder. "He must have started training her when she was in diapers, then. I've been dabbling in photography for more than ten years, and I still have trouble making a proper plate. Henry, could I borrow these pictures for a while?"

"What do you want to do with them?" Henry asked, unwilling to let Felicity's gift out of his sight.

"There's a meeting of the Photographic Society next week. I'd like to show these to the other members and get their opinions. Perhaps I'm just impressed because I've seen the photographer. I won't tell them anything about her, not even that she's a female, until they've told me what they think. Then you'll know for sure just how good they really are." Alex smiled cajolingly at his old friend.

"And if they are good, then what?" Henry asked suspiciously.

"Well," Alex pondered, "I was thinking about the Photography Building at the Exposition. We'll be displaying thousands of photographs there. No reason why hers shouldn't be among them… Although how the other photographers will feel about a woman's work being considered equal with theirs remains to be seen."

"Humph," Henry snorted. "It's early days to be thinking about all that. You said yourself, you aren't even sure how good her work is yet."

"But you will let me take the photographs, won't you?" Alex insisted. "I'll take good care of them and bring them back the day after the meeting." He gave Henry a quizzical smile. "Do I have to pledge the life of my firstborn?"

"No," Henry admitted grudgingly. "But nothing better happen to those pictures."

"Oh, I think something will happen to them, all right," Alex said, still grinning. "But it will be something very, very nice."

The next morning, Josh and Felicity were in the back parlor, the informal room where the family usually sat, when Henry Maxwell received another visitor.

"Good morning, Dr. Lowell," Bellwood greeted him.

When Dr. Lowell had been escorted upstairs, Felicity sought Bellwood out. "Who was that man?"

"That is Dr. Lowell, your grandfather's physician," Bellwood informed her.

"Would you please tell him that I'd like to speak with him before he leaves?" she asked, flushing slightly with embarrassment at delivering her first order to Bellwood. And then she wondered what such a great doctor would think of being summoned to her presence, but she was rapidly learning that to do so was the only way she got to see anyone in this house.

A short while later, Bellwood announced Dr. Lowell, a tall, distinguished man with dark hair and a full beard, and ushered him into the parlor. When introductions were complete and everyone was seated comfortably, Dr. Lowell began, anticipating Josh and Felicity's questions.

"Your grandfather seems to be doing well, but I am afraid that is an illusion, Mrs. Logan," he said solemnly.

"An illusion? What do you mean?" she asked, alarmed.

"Well, of course he is in good spirits because of your visit. I understand that he has even been out of bed…"

"Yes, but I thought that was a good sign," Felicity said.

Dr. Lowell shook his head. "I fear he has overextended his limited resources. What you have interpreted as a return of good health might in fact indicate just the opposite. His exertions may actually hasten his demise."

"Oh no!" Felicity protested, horrified that she might unwittingly be the cause of her grandfather's death.

But Dr. Lowell smiled indulgently. "Don't be unduly alarmed, Mrs. Logan," he assured her. "I only tell you this as a warning. I'm sure that if your grandfather resumes his quiet life, he will live for several more months."

"Months?" Josh echoed, unable to believe the lively man he had met the previous day had only months left to live.

But Dr. Lowell nodded sagely. "I'm afraid so."

Felicity stared at the doctor. She simply could not accept such a discouraging diagnosis. She could not believe her grandfather was really dying. "Isn't there anything you can do?" she pleaded.