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Building Wireless Sensor Networks Using Arduino
Community Experience Distilled 1st Edition Kooijman
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Kooijman, Matthijs
ISBN(s): 9781784395582, 1784395587
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 2.67 MB
Year: 2015
Language: english
Building Wireless Sensor Networks Using
Arduino
Table of Contents
Building Wireless Sensor Networks Using Arduino
Credits
About the Author
About the Reviewers
www.PacktPub.com
Support files, eBooks, discount offers, and more
Why subscribe?
Free access for Packt account holders
Preface
What this book covers
What you need for this book
Who this book is for
Conventions
Reader feedback
Customer support
Downloading the example code
Errata
Piracy
eBooks, discount offers, and more
Questions
1. A World without Wires
XBee radio hardware
XBee product families
Versions and variants
Official XBee documentation
Your first transmission
Using the SparkFun XBee Explorer USB
Getting and running XCTU
Updating the firmware
Failed firmware updates
Configuration
Talking to the XBee module
Receiving data
Uploading the sketch
Connecting the XBee
Receiving data
Switching to API mode
First module in API mode
Sending data
Second module in API mode
Starting and joining a network
 Module addressing
Network scanning and remote configuration
The Commissioning button and LEDs
Making your network secure
Distributing the network key
Trust center link key
Trust center terminology differences
Selecting encryption keys
Setting up your secure network
Disabling network joining
Other XBee families
Configuration values
Summary
2. Collecting Sensor Data
Hardware setup
Serial on XBee
Handshaking signals
Voltage levels
Serial on a computer
Serial on Arduino
XBee shields
Other shields
Software setup
Example sketches
Variable types
PROGMEM and F() strings
Pointers
Serial port setup
The xbee-arduino library
Creating the sketch
Sending and receiving data
Sending data
The ZBTxRequest objects
Creating the sketch
Blocking and polling
Running the sketch
Callbacks
Callback types
Callback limitations
Receiving data
The ZBRxResponse objects
Creating the sketch
Collecting sensor data
Reading a DHT22 sensor
 Handling packets using binary.h
Building and sending a packet
Constructing a packet using binary.h
Creating the sketch
Receiving and parsing a packet
Parsing a packet using binary.h
Creating the sketch
Troubleshooting
Communication with the XBee module is not working
Modules are not joining the network
Modules cannot talk to each other
Summary
3. Storing and Visualizing Your Data
Storing your data in the cloud
Introducing Beebotte
Channels and resources
Security
Access protocols
Sending your data to Beebotte
Preparing Beebotte
Connecting your Arduino to the Internet
Writing the sketch
Visualizing your data
Accessing your data
Keeping your data locally
Sending data over the serial port
Receiving data over the serial port
Summary
4. Controlling the World
Controlling your heating and/or cooling system
Replacing the thermostat
Controlling mains power
Hairdryer – an alternative
Control systems
Adding setpoint control
Subscribing to events
Reading events
Remembering sensor readings
Thermostat controller
Controlling a relay
Controlling off-the-shelf ZigBee devices
ZigBee profiles, endpoints, and clusters
ZigBee public profiles
Selecting a ZigBee device
 Talking to a ZigBee on/off device
Joining the network
Factory reset in case of problems
Discovering services
The ZBExplicitTxRequest objects
Sending a message
The ZBExplicitRxResponse objects
Receiving messages
Receiving on/off command responses
More ZigBee features
Summary
5. Standalone XBee Operation
Creating a window sensor
Connecting things
Powering the module
Connecting the window sensor
I/O pin naming
Configuring the XBee module
Remotely sampling the pins
Querying the pin state
Automatically sending the sample data
The configuration values
Receiving the samples on the coordinator
The ZBRxIoSampleResponse objects
Receiving the I/O samples
Creating a standalone relay
Connecting things
Configuring the XBee module
Remotely toggling an output pin
Summary
6. Battery Power and Sleeping
Battery power
Lithium-ion and lithium polymer batteries
Regulators
Saving power
Power saving techniques
Knowing what to optimize and when to stop
XBee power-saving
The XBee sleep modes
Configuring the network
The sleeping window sensor
Battery power
Power usage
Arduino power-saving
 The XBee configuration
Hardware
Powering the Arduino
Hardware connections
Putting the Arduino to sleep
Sleep modes
Waking up
Creating the sketch
Power usage
Summary
Index
Building Wireless Sensor Networks Using
Arduino
Building Wireless Sensor Networks Using
Arduino
Copyright © 2015 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the
publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of the
information presented. However, the information contained in this book is sold without
warranty, either express or implied. Neither the author, nor Packt Publishing, and its dealers
and distributors will be held liable for any damages caused or alleged to be caused directly or
indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the
companies and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals. However,
Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: October 2015

Production reference: 1121015

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place

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Birmingham B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78439-558-2

www.packtpub.com
Credits
Author

Matthijs Kooijman

Reviewers

Anvirup Basu

Roberto Gallea

Vincent Gijsen

Randy Schur

Fangzhou Xia

Commissioning Editor

Nadeem Bagban

Acquisition Editor

Sonali Vernekar

Content Development Editor

Shali Deeraj

Technical Editor

Danish Shaikh

Copy Editor

Tasneem Fatehi

Project Coordinator

Kinjal Bari

Proofreader

Safis Editing
Indexer

Mariammal Chettiyar

Graphics

Abhinash Sahu

Production Coordinator

Conidon Miranda

Cover Work

Conidon Miranda

Layout Coordinator

Conidon Miranda
About the Author
Matthijs Kooijman is an independent embedded software developer who is firmly connected
with the maker movement through a local fab lab and his work on the Arduino project. Since
his youth, Matthijs has been interested in making things; for example, he built his first
television remote control before the age of 10 (using a piece of rope to pull on the volume
slider, not a solution that he would choose today).

Matthijs has a firm belief in the merits of open source software and enjoys contributing to the
software that he uses—both by coding and helping out other users. His work experience is
broad—ranging from Web development to Linux driver hacking, from tech support to
various forms of wireless networking, but almost always related to open source software in
some way.
About the Reviewers
Anvirup Basu is currently a student pursuing his B.Tech in electronics and communication
engineering from the Siliguri Institute of Technology. Besides academics, he is actively
involved in robotics, IoT, and mobile application development. Since the first year, he has
been involved with Microsoft as a Microsoft Student Partner and organized three seminars
and workshops on the various Microsoft technologies, mainly for Windows phones and the
Windows app development.

Being enthusiastic about robotics and Microsoft technologies, he has developed several
robots, both autonomous and manual, and a couple of manual robot controllers, some of
which are the Universal Robot Controller for Windows PCs and Mark 1 pilot for Windows
phones. He is also into computer vision and has worked on the detection of wild animals.
Automated Elephant Tracker is one of his projects, in the journal named International journal
of Electronics and Communication Engineering &Technology, under International Association
for Engineering and Management Education, which includes his works on robotics and
computer vision.

His website, http://www.avirupbasu.com, holds some of his work and one may get in contact
with him there. Being a part-time blogger, he blogs about topics he is interested in. Currently,
he is working on autonomous robot control using SONAR and GPS. He dreams about doing
research and development in his areas of interest.

Roberto Gallea, PhD, has been a computer science researcher since 2007 at the University of
Palermo, Italy. He is committed to researching fields such as medical imaging, multimedia,
and computer vision. In 2012, he started enhancing his academic and personal projects with
the use of analog and digital electronics and with a particular involvement in the open source
hardware and software platforms, such as the Arduino. Besides his academic interests, he
conducts personal projects, which are aimed at producing handcrafted items such as musical
instruments, furniture, and LED devices using embedded invisible electronics. He also
collaborates with contemporary dance companies on digital scenes and costume designing.

Vincent Gijsen is an all-round type of a guy. With a bachelor's degree in embedded systems, a
masters in information science, work experience in a Big Data start-up, and being currently
active as a security officer and cyber security consultant in industrial and infrastructure
environments, he has a broad range of interests. In his spare time, he likes to fiddle with
lasers, microcontrollers, and other related electronics.

I would like to thank Packt Publishing for their pleasant cooperation and their ability always
present interesting reads to review like: Storm Blueprints: Patterns for Distributed Real-Time
Computation, and Arduino Development Cookbook as well as my girlfriend: Lisa-Anne, for
her support.

Randy Schur is a graduate student in mechanical engineering at the George Washington

University. He has experience working with the Arduino, robotics, and rapid prototyping, and
has worked on the book Arduino Computer Vision Programming by Packt Publishing Pvt. Ltd.

Fangzhou Xia is currently pursuing a master's degree in mechanical engineering (ME) at the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). He received his bachelor's degree in ME from
the University of Michigan (UM) and a bachelor's degree in electrical and computer
engineering at Shanghai Jiao Tong University (SJTU). His areas of interest in mechanical
engineering include system control, robotics, product design, and manufacturing automation.
His areas of interest in electrical engineering include Web application development,
embedded system implementation, and data acquisition system setup.
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Preface
The Arduino platform makes it easy to get started with programming and electronics, but
introducing wireless communication in your project can get complicated quickly. The XBee
wireless platform hides most of the complicated details from you, and this book provides a
step-by-step guide to using XBee modules with Arduino.

This book describes an example wireless sensor network, and invites you to build that
network yourself. By following the steps in each chapter, you will build a network that can
measure temperature and humidity in various rooms of your house, collect that data online,
and automatically control your heating and/or cooling system to maintain the proper
temperature in your house. This temperature can be configured through an online dashboard,
ultimately putting control back in your hands.

All the concepts needed to build this example network will be explained, so you will have the
knowledge to build your own project using these same concepts. Concepts that are closely
related, but beyond the scope of this book, will be mentioned and appropriate references will
be given so you can find out more if needed.
What this book covers
Chapter 1, A World without Wires, introduces the XBee platform and shows how to use the
XCTU program to control and configure XBee modules. It covers the AT and API modes,
firmware updates, and ZigBee network creation and security. It also shows how to transmit
your first messages between two XBee modules.

Chapter 2, Collecting Sensor Data, provides more details on wiring up XBee modules, and
introduces the xbee-arduino library that lets an Arduino take control of an XBee module.
Reading a sensor, designing a packet format, and wirelessly transmitting data are discussed;
thus, by the end of this chapter you will have a basic wireless sensor network where one or
more Arduinos read temperature and humidity data and this is wirelessly collected by another
Arduino.

Chapter 3, Storing and Visualizing Your Data, covers storing and visualizing your collected
data with the Beebotte cloud service, using an Internet-connected Arduino and the MQTT
protocol. Storing and visualizing your data on your own computer, using a Python program
and database, are also briefly discussed.

Chapter 4, Controlling the World, shows how to let your network control things in addition to
monitoring them, such as heating and/or cooling your house. Simple on/off control is
covered in detail, either using a relay module connected to an Arduino, or using an off-the-
shelf wireless power socket that supports the ZigBee Home Automation protocol.

Chapter 5, Standalone XBee Operation, lets you implement simple devices without using an
Arduino, by letting the XBee module directly control or measure things. You will see how to
simplify the relay module from Chapter 4, Controlling the World and add window
open/closed detection to your network.

Chapter 6, Battery Power and Sleeping, discusses options for battery-powering your projects,
as well as techniques to reduce the power used. This includes some hardware techniques, as
well as applying various sleep modes to drastically reduce XBee and Arduino power usage
when they are idle.
Other documents randomly have
different content
to Grismer, as he interpreted the situation, that John Cleland was
planning to unite, through his son Jim, the comfortable Cleland
income with the Quest millions, and to elbow everybody else out of
the way.
"The philanthropic hypocrite," mused Grismer, still smarting
from a note expressing civil regrets in reply to an invitation to
Stephanie and Jim to join them after church for a motor trip to
Lakewood.
"Can't they come?" inquired Oswald.
"Previous engagement," snapped Grismer, tearing up the note.
His wife, an invalid, with stringy hair and spots on her face,
remarked with resignation that the Clelands were too stylish to care
about plain, Christian people.
"Stylish," repeated Grismer, "I've got ten dollars to Cleland's
one. I can put on style enough to swamp him if I've a mind to!—m-
m-m'yes, if I've a mind to."
"Why don't you?" inquired Oswald, with a malicious side glance
at his father's frock coat and ready-made cravat. "Chuck the religious
game and wear spats and a topper! It's a better graft, governor."
Chiltern Grismer, only partly attentive to his son's impudence,
turned a fierce, preoccupied glance upon him. But his mind was still
intrigued with that word "stylish." It began to enrage him.
He repeated it aloud once or twice, sneeringly:
"So you think we may not be sufficiently stylish to suit the
Clelands—or that brat they picked out of the sewer? M-m-m'yes, out
of an east-side sewer!"
Oswald pricked up his intelligent and rather pointed ears.
"What brat?" he inquired.
 Chiltern Grismer had never told his son the story of Stephanie
Quest. In the beginning, the boy had been too young, and there
seemed to be no particular reason for telling him. Later, when
Grismer suddenly developed ambitions in behalf of his son for the
Quest fortune, he did not say anything about Stephanie's origin,
fearing that it might prejudice his son.
Now, he suddenly concluded to tell him, not from spite entirely,
nor to satisfy his increasing resentment against Cleland; but because
Oswald would, some day, inherit the Grismer money. And it might be
just as well to prime him now, in the event that any of the Clelands
should ever start to reopen the case which had deprived Jessie
Grismer of her own inheritance so many years ago.
The young fellow listened with languid astonishment as the links
of the story, very carefully and morally polished, were displayed by
his father for his instruction and edification.
"That is the sort of stylish people they are," concluded Grismer,
making an abrupt end. "Let it be a warning to you to keep your eye
on the Clelands; for a man that calls himself a philanthropist, and is
sharp enough to pick out an heiress from the gutter, will bear
watching!—m-m-m'yes, indeed, he certainly will bear watching."
Mrs. Grismer, who was knitting with chilly fingers, sighed.
"You always said it was God's judgment on Jessie and her
descendants, Chiltern. But I kind of wish you'd been a little mite
more forgiving."
"Who am I?" demanded Grismer, sullenly, "to thwart God's
wrath ... m-m-m'yes, the anger of the Lord Almighty! And I never
thought of that imbecile aunt.... It was divine will that punished my
erring sister and her children, and her children's chil——"
 "Rot!" remarked Oswald. "Cleland caught you napping and put
one over. That's all that worries you. And now you are properly and
piously sore!"
"That is an impious and wickedly outrageous way to talk to your
father!" said Grismer, glaring at him. "You have come back from
college lacking reverence and respect for everything you have been
taught to consider sacred!—m-m-m'yes—everything! You have
returned to us utterly demoralized, defiant, rebellious, changed!
Every worldly abomination seems to attract you: you smoke openly
in your mother's presence; your careless and loose conversation
betrays your contempt for the simple, homely, and frugal
atmosphere in which you have been reared by Christian parents.
Doubtless we are not sufficiently stylish for you any longer!" he
added sarcastically.
"I'm sorry I was disrespectful, governor——"
"No! You are not sorry!" retorted Grismer tartly. "You rejoice
secretly in your defiance of your parents! You have been
demoralized by the license permitted you by absence from home.
You live irresponsibly; you fling away your money on theatres! You
yourself admit that you have learned to dance. Nothing that your
pastor has taught you, nothing that our church holds sacred seems
capable of restraining you from wickedness. That is the truth,
Oswald. And your mother and I despair of your future, here and——"
he lifted his eyes solemnly—"above."
There was an awkward silence. Finally Oswald said with sullen
frankness:
"You see I'm a man, now, and I've got to do my own thinking.
Things I used to believe seem tommyrot to me now——"
 "Oswald!" sighed his mother.
"I'm sorry to pain you, Mother, but they do! And about
everything you object to I find agreeable. I'm not very bad, Mother.
But this sort of talk inclines me to raise the devil. What's the harm in
going to a show? In dancing? In smoking a cigar? For heaven's sake,
let a fellow alone. The line of talk the governor hands me makes a
cynic of a man who's got any brains."
There was another silence; then Oswald continued:
"And, while we are trying to be frank with each other this
pleasant Sunday morning, what about my career? Let's settle it
now!"
"I'm opposed to any such frivolous profession!" snapped
Grismer angrily. "That's your answer. And that settles it."
"You mean that you still oppose my studying sculpture?"
"Emphatically."
"Why?" demanded the youth, rather white, but smiling.
"Because it is no business career for a Christian!" retorted his
father, furious. "It is a loose, irregular, eccentric profession, beset
with pitfalls and temptations. It leads to immorality and unbelief—m-
m-m'yes, to hell itself! And that is why I oppose it!"
Oswald shrugged:
"I'm sorry you feel that way but I can't help it, of course."
"Do you mean," inquired his mother, "that you intend to
disregard our solemn wishes?"
"I don't know," said the young fellow, "I really don't know,
Mother. I can't seem to breathe and expand at home. You've never
made things very cheerful for me."
"Oswald! You are utterly heartless!"
 "I've been fed up on the governor's kind of religion, on narrow
views and gloom; and that's no good for a modern boy. It's a
wonder I have any heart at all, and sometimes I think it's dried up
——"
"That will do!" shouted Grismer, losing all self-control. "If your
home, your parents, and your Creator can not make a Christian of
you, there is nothing to hope from you! ... I'll hear no more from
you. Go and get ready for church!"
"I sha'n't go," said the young fellow calmly.
When he went back to Cambridge at the end of the week, it
was with the desire never to see his home again, and with a vague
and burning intention to get even, somehow, by breaking every law
of the imbecile religion on which he had been "fed up."

CHAPTER VIII

When Stephanie was fifteen years old, John Cleland took her to
Cambridge.
The girl had been attending a celebrated New York school
during the last two years. She had developed the bearing and
manners which characterized the carefully trained products of that
institution, but the régime seemed to have subdued her, and made
her retiring and diffident.
She could have formed friendships there had she desired to do
so; she formed none; yet any girl there would have been happy and
flattered to call Stephanie Quest her friend. But Stephanie cared little
for those confidential and intimate relations so popular among
school girls of her age.
She made no enemies, however. An engaging reticence and
reserve characterized her—the shy and wistful charm of that
indeterminate age when a girl is midway in the delicate process of
transformation.
If she cared nothing about girls, she lacked self-confidence with
boys, though vastly preferring their society; but she got little of it
except when Jim's school friends came to the house during holidays.
Then she had a heavenly time just watching and listening.
So when John Cleland took her to Cambridge, she had, in the
vernacular of the moment, a "wonderful" experience—everything
during that period of her career being "wonderful" or "topping."
Jim, as always, was "wonderful;" and the attitude of his friends
alternately delighted and awed her, so gaily devoted they instantly
became to Jim's "little sister."
But what now secretly thrilled the girl was that Jim, for the first
time, seemed to be proud of her, not tolerating her as an immature
member of the family, but welcoming her as an equal, on an equal
footing. And, with inexpressible delight, she remembered her
determination, long ago, to overtake him; and realized that she was
doing it very rapidly.
So she went to a football game at the stadium; she took tea in
the quarters of these god-like young men; she motored about
Cambridge and Boston; she saw all that a girl of fifteen ought to
see, heard all that she ought to hear, and went back to New York
with John Cleland in the seventh paradise of happiness fulfilled,
madly enamoured of Jim and every youthful superman he had
introduced to her.
Every year while Jim was at college there was a repetition of
this programme, and she and John Cleland departed regularly for
Cambridge amid excitement indescribable.
And when, in due time, Jim prepared to emerge from that great
university, swaddled in sheepskin, and reeking with Cambridge
culture, Stephanie went again to Cambridge with her adopted father
—a girl, then, of seventeen, still growing, still in the wondering maze
of her own adolescence, exquisitely involved in its magic, conscious
already of its spell, of its witchcraft, which lore she was shyly
venturing to investigate.
She had a "wonderful" week in Cambridge—more and more
excited by the discovery that young men found her as agreeable as
she found them, and that they sought her now on perfectly even
terms of years and experience; regarded her as of them, not merely
with them. And this enchanted her.
Two of her school friends, the Hildreth girls, were there with
their mother, and the latter very gladly extended her wing to cover
Stephanie for the dance, John Cleland not feeling very well and
remaining in Boston.
And it chanced that Stephanie met there Oswald Grismer; and
knew him instantly when he was presented to her. Even after all
those years, the girl clearly recollected seeing him in the railroad
station, and remembered the odd emotions of curiosity and
disapproval she experienced when he stared at her so persistently—
disapproval slightly mitigated by consciousness of the boyish flattery
his manner toward her implied.
 He said, in his easy, half-mischievous way:
"You don't remember me, of course, Miss Quest, but when you
were a very little girl I once saw you at the Grand Central Station in
New York."
Stephanie, as yet too inexperienced a diplomat to forget such
things, replied frankly that she remembered him perfectly. When it
was too late, she blushed at her admission.
"That's unusually nice of you," he said. "Maybe it was my bad
manners that impressed you, Miss Quest. I remember that I had
never seen such a pretty little girl in my life, and I'm very sure I
stared at you, and that you were properly annoyed."
He was laughing easily, as he spoke, and she laughed, too, still
a trifle confused.
"I did think you rather rude," she admitted. "But what a long
time ago that was! Isn't it strange that I should remember it? I can
even recollect that you and my brother had had a fight in school and
that dad made you both shake hands there in the station, before you
went aboard the train.... Naturally, I didn't feel kindly toward you,"
she added, laughingly.
"Jim and I are now on most amiable terms," he assured her, "so
please feel kindly toward me now—kindly enough to give me one
unimportant dance. Will you, Miss Quest?"
Later when he presented himself to claim the dance, her
reception of him was unmistakably friendly.
He had grown up into a spare, loosely coupled, yet rather
graceful young fellow, with hair and eyes that matched, both of a
deep amber shade.
 But there was in his bearing, in his carelessly attractive manner,
in his gaze, a lurking hint of irresponsibility, perhaps of mischief,
which did not, however, impress her disagreeably.
On the contrary, she felt oddly at ease with him, as though she
had known him for some time.
"Have you forgiven me for staring at you so many years ago?"
he inquired, smilingly.
She thought that she had.
But his next words startled her a little; he said, still smiling in
his careless and attractive way:
"I have a queer idea that we're beginning in the middle of
everything—that we've already known each other long enough to
waive preliminaries and begin our acquaintance as old friends."
He was saying almost exactly what she had not put into words.
He was still looking at her intently, curiously, with the same slightly
importunate, slightly deferential smile which she now vividly
remembered in the boy.
"Do you, by any chance, feel the same about our encounter?"
he asked.
"What way?"
"That we seem to have known each other for a long time?"
Stephanie had not yet learned very much in the art of self-
defense. A question to her still meant either a truthful answer or a
silence. She remained silent.
"Do you, Miss Quest?" he persisted.
"Yes, I do."
"As though," he insisted, "you and I are beginning in the middle
of the book of friendship instead of bothering to cut the pages of the
preface?" he suggested gaily.
She laughed.
"You know," she warned him, "that I have not yet made up my
mind about you."
"Oh. Concerning what are you in doubt?"
"Concerning exactly how I ought to consider you."
"As a friend, please."
"Perhaps. Are we going to dance or talk?"
After they had been dancing for a few moments:
"So you are a crew man?"
"Who told you?"
"I've inquired about you," she admitted, glancing sideways at
the tall, spare, graceful young fellow with his almost golden
colouring. "I have questioned various people. They told me things."
"Did they give me a black eye?" he asked, laughingly.
"No. But somebody gave you a pair of golden ones.... Like two
sun-spots on a brown brook. You've a golden look; do you know it?"
"Red-headed men turn that way when they're in the sun and
wind," he explained, still laughing, yet plainly fascinated by the
piquant, breezy informality of this young girl. "Tell me, do you still go
to school, Miss Quest?"
"How insulting! ... Yes! But it was mean of you to ask."
"Good Lord! You didn't expect me to think you the mother of a
family, did you?"
That mollified her.
"Where do you go to school?" he continued.
"Miss Montfort's. I finish this week."
"And then?"
 "To college, I'm afraid."
"Don't you want to?"
"I'd rather go to a dramatic school."
"Is that your inclination, Miss Quest?"
"I'd adore it! But dad doesn't."
"Too bad."
"I don't know. I'm quite happy, anyway. I'm having a wonderful
time, whatever I'm doing."
"Then it isn't an imperious call from Heaven to leave all and
elevate the drama?" he asked, with a pretense of anxiety that made
her laugh.
"You are disrespectful. I'm sure I could elevate the drama if I
had the chance. But I sha'n't get it. However, next to the stage I
adore to paint," she explained. "There is a class. I have attended it
for two years. I paint rather nicely."
"No wonder we feel so friendly," exclaimed Grismer.
"Why? Do you paint?"
"No, but I'm to be a sculptor."
"How wonderful! I'm simply mad to do something, too! Don't
you love the atmosphere of Bohemia, Mr. Grismer?"
He said that he did with a mischievous smile straight into her
grey eyes.
"It is my dream," she went on, slightly confused, "to have a
studio—not a bit fixed up, you know, and not frilly—but with just one
or two wonderful old objects of art here and there and the rest a
fascinating confusion of artistic things."
"Great!" he assented. "Please ask me to tea!"
 "Wouldn't it be wonderful? And of course I'd work like fury until
five o'clock every day, and then just have tea ready for the brilliant
and interesting people who are likely to drop in to discuss the most
wonderful things! Just think of it, Mr. Grismer! Think what a
heavenly privilege it must be to live such a life, surrounded by
inspiration and—and atmosphere and—and such things—and
listening to the conversation of celebrated people telling each other
all about art and how they became famous! What a lofty, exalted
life! What a magnificent incentive to self-cultivation, attainment, and
creative accomplishment! And yet, how charmingly informal and free
from artificiality!"
Grismer also had looked forward to a professional career in
Bohemia, with a lively appreciation of its agreeable informalities. And
the irresponsibility and liberty—perhaps license—of such a life had
appealed to him only in a lesser degree than the desire to satisfy his
artistic proclivities with a block of marble or a fistful of clay.
"Yes," he repeated, "that is undoubtedly the life, Miss Quest.
And it certainly seems as though you and I were cut out for it."
Stephanie sighed, lost in iridescent dreams of higher things—
vague visions of spiritual and artistic levels from which, if attained,
genius might stoop to regenerate the world.
But Grismer's amber eyes were brilliant with slumbering
mischief.
"What do you think of Grismer, Steve?" inquired Jim Cleland, as
they drove back to Boston that night, where his father, at the hotel,
awaited them both.
"I really don't exactly know, Jim. Do you like him?"
 "Sometimes. He's crew, Dicky, Hasty Pudding. He's a curious
chap. You've got to hand him that, anyway."
"Cleverness?"
"Oh, more than that, I think. He's an artist through and
through."
"Really!"
"Oh, yes. He's a bird on the box, too."
"What!"
"On the piano, Steve. He's the real thing. He sings charmingly.
He draws better than Harry Beltran. He's done things in clay and
wax—really wonderful things. You saw him in theatricals."
"Did I? Which was he?"
"Why, the Duke of Brooklyn, of course. He was practically the
whole show!"
"I didn't know it," she murmured. "I did not recognize him. How
clever he really is!"
"You hadn't met him then," remarked Jim.
"But I had seen him, once," she answered in a low, dreamy
voice.
Jim Cleland glanced around at her. Again it struck him that
Stephanie was growing up very rapidly into an amazingly ornamental
girl—a sister to be proud of.
"Did you have a good time, Steve?" he asked.
"Wonderful," she sighed; smiling back at him out of sleepy eyes.
The car sped on toward Boston.

CHAPTER IX
Stephanie Quest was introduced to society when she was eighteen,
and was not a success. She had every chance at her debut to prove
popular, but she remained passive, charmingly indifferent to social
success, not inclined to step upon the treadmill, unwilling to endure
the exactions, formalities, sacrifices, and stupid routine which alone
make social position possible. There was too much chaff for the few
grains of wheat to interest her.
She wanted a career, and she wanted to waste no time about it,
and she was delightfully certain that the path to it lay through some
dramatic or art school to the stage or studio.
Jim laughed at her and teased her; but his father worried a
great deal, and when Stephanie realized that he was worrying she
became reasonable about the matter and said that the next best
thing would be college.
"Dad," she said, "I adore dancing and gay dinner parties, but
there is nothing else to them but mere dancing and eating. The
trouble seems to be with the people—nice people, of course—but
——"
"Brainless," remarked Jim, looking over his evening paper.
"No; but they all think and do the same things. They all have
the same opinions, the same outlook. They all read the same books
when they read at all, go to see the same plays, visit the same
people. It's jolly to do it two or three times; but after a little while
you realize that all these people are restless and don't know what to
do with themselves; and it makes me restless—not for that reason—
but because I do know what to do with myself—only you, darling
——" slipping one arm around John Cleland's neck, "—don't
approve."
"Yours is a restless sex, Steve," remarked Jim, still studying the
evening paper. "You've all got the fidgets."
"A libel, my patronizing friend. Or rather a tribute," she added
gaily, "because only a restless mind matures and accomplishes."
"Accomplishes what? Suffrage? Sex equality? You'll all perish
with boredom when you get it, because there'll be nothing more to
fidget about."
"He's just a bumptious boy yet, isn't he, Dad?"
Jim laughed and laid aside his paper:
"You're a sweet, pretty girl, Steve——"
"I'll slay you if you call me that!"
"Why not be what you look? Why not have a good time with all
your might, marry when you wish, and become a perfectly——"
"Oh, Jim, you are annoying! Dad, is there anything more
irritating than a freshly hatched college graduate? Or more
maddeningly complacent? Look at your self-satisfied son! There he
sits, after having spent the entire day in enjoyment of his profession,
and argues that I ought to be satisfied with an idle day in which I
have accomplished absolutely nothing! I'm afraid your son is a pig."
Jim laughed lazily:
"The restless sex is setting the world by the ears," he said
tormentingly. "All this femininist business, this intrusion into man's
affairs, this fidgety dissatisfaction with a perfectly good civilization, is
spoiling you all."
"Is that the sort of thing you're putting into your wonderful
novel?" she inquired.
 "No, it's too unimportant——"
"Dad! Let's ignore him! Now, dear, if you feel as you do about a
career for me at present, I really think I had better go to college. I
do love pleasure, but somehow the sort of pleasure I'm supposed to
enjoy doesn't last; and it's the people, I think, that tire one very
quickly. It does make a difference in dancing, doesn't it?—not to
hear an idea uttered during an entire evening—not to find anybody
thinking for themselves——"
"Oh, Steve!" laughed Jim, "you're not expected to think at your
age! All that society expects of you is that you chatter incessantly
during dinner and the opera and do your thinking in a ballroom with
your feet!"
She was laughing, but an unwonted colour brightened her
cheeks as she turned on him from the padded arm of John Cleland's
chair, where she had been sitting:
"If I really thought you meant that, Jim, I'd spend the
remainder of my life in proving to you that I have a mind."
"Never mind him, Steve," said John Cleland. "If you wish to go
to college, you shall."
"How about looking after us?" inquired Jim, alarmed.
"Dad, if my being here is going to make you more comfortable,"
she said, "I'll remain. Really, I am serious. Don't you want me to
go?"
"Are you really so restless, Steve?"
"Mentally," she replied, with a defiant glance at Jim.
"This will be a gay place to live in if you go off for four years!"
remarked that young man.
"You don't mean that you'd miss me!" she exclaimed mockingly.
 "Of course I'd miss you."
"Miss the mental stimulus I give you?"—sweetly persuasive.
"Not at all. I'd miss the mental relaxation you afford my tired
brain——"
"You beast! Dad, I'm going! And some day your son will find out
that it's an idle mind that makes a girl restless; not a restless mind
that makes her idle!"
"I was just teasing, Steve!"
"I know it." She smiled at the young fellow, but her grey eyes
were brilliant. Then she turned and nestled against John Cleland: "I
have made up my mind, darling, and I have decided to go to
Vassar."
Home, to John Cleland and his son, had come to mean
Stephanie as much as everything else under the common roof-tree.
For the background of familiar things framed her so naturally
and so convincingly and seemed so obviously devised for her in this
mellow old household, where everything had its particular place in
an orderly ensemble, that when she actually departed for college,
the routine became dislocated, jarring everything above and below
stairs, and leaving two dismayed and extremely restless men.
"Steve's going off like this has put the whole house on the
blink," protested Jim, intensely surprised to discover the fact.
It nearly finished Janet, whose voice, long afflicted with the
cracked tremolo of age, now became almost incoherent at the very
mention of Stephanie's name.
Old Lizzie, the laundress, deeply disapproving of Stephanie's
departure, insisted on doing her linen and sheer fabrics, and sending
a hamper once a week to Poughkeepsie. Every week, also, Amanda,
the cook, dispatched cardboard boxes Vassarward, containing
condiments and culinary creations which she stubbornly refused to
allow Cleland Senior to censor.
"Ay t'ank a leetle yelly-cake and a leetle yar of yam it will not
hurt Miss Stephanie," she explained to Cleland. And he said no
more.
As for Meacham, he prowled noiselessly about his duties, little,
shrunken, round-shouldered, as though no dislocation in the family
circle had occurred; but every day since her departure, at
Stephanie's place a fresh flower of some sort lay on the cloth to
match the other blossom opposite.
In the library together, after dinner, father and son discussed
the void which her absence had created.
"She'll get enough of it and come back," suggested Jim, but
without conviction. "It's beastly not having her about."
"Perhaps you have a faint idea how it was for me when you
were away," observed his father.
"I know. I had to go through, hadn't I?"
"Of course.... But—with your mother gone—it was—lonely. Do
you understand, now, why I took Steve when I had the chance?"
The young fellow nodded, looking at his father:
"Of course I understand. But I don't see why Steve had to go.
She has everything here to amuse her—everything a girl could
desire! Why the deuce should she get restless and go flying about
after knowledge?"
"Possibly," said John Cleland, "the child has a mind."
"A feminine one. Yes, of course. I tell you, Father, it's all part
and parcel of this world-wide restlessness which has set women
fidgeting the whole world over. What is it they want?—because they
themselves can't tell you. Do you know?"
"I think I do. They desire to exercise the liberty of choice."
"They have it now, haven't they?"
"Virtually. They're getting the rest. If Steve goes through college
she will emerge to find all paths open to women. It worries me a
little."
Jim shrugged:
"What is it she calls it—I mean her attitude about choosing a
career?"
"She refers to it, I believe, as 'the necessity for self-expression.'"
"Fiddle! The trouble with Steve is that she's afflicted with
extreme youth."
"I don't know, Jim. She has a mind."
"It's a purely imitative one. People she has read about draw,
write, compose music. Steve is sensitive to impression, high strung,
with a very receptive mind; and the idea attracts her. And what
happens? She sees me, for example, scribbling away every day; she
knows I'm writing a novel; it makes an impression on her and she
takes to scribbling, too.
"Oswald Grismer drops in and talks studio and atmosphere and
Rodin and Manship. That stirs her up. What occurs within twenty-
four hours? Steve orders a box of colours and a modelling table; and
she smears her pretty boudoir furniture with oil paint and plasticine.
And that's all it amounts to, Father, just the caprice of a very young
girl who thinks creative art a romantic cinch, and takes a shy at it."
His father, not smiling, said:
 "Possibly. But the mere fact that she does take a shy at these
things—spends her leisure in trying to paint, model, and write, when
other girls of her age don't, worries me a little. I do not want her to
become interested in any profession of an irregular nature. I want
Steve to keep away from the unconventional. I'm afraid of it for her."
"Why?"
"Because all intelligence is restless—and Steve is very
intelligent. All creative minds desire to find some medium for self-
expression. And I'm wondering whether Steve's mind is creative or
merely imitative; whether she is actually but blindly searching for an
outlet for self-expression, or whether it's merely the healthy mental
energy of a healthy body requiring its share of exercise, too."
Jim laughed:
"It's in the air, Father, this mania for 'doing things.' It's the
ridiculous renaissance of the commonplace, long submerged. Every
college youth, every school girl writes a novel; every janitor, every
office boy a scenario. The stage to-day teems with sales-ladies and
floor-walkers; the pants-presser and the manufacturer of ladies'
cloaks direct the newest art of the moving pictures. Printers' devils
and ex-draymen fill the papers with their draughtsmanship; head-
waiters write the scores for musical productions. Art is in the air. So
why shouldn't Steve believe herself capable of creating a few things?
She'll get over it."
"I hope she will."
"She will. Steve is a reasonable child."
"Steve is a sweet, intelligent and reasonable girl.... Very
impressionable.... And sensitive.... I hope," he added irrelevantly,
"that I shall live a few years more."
 "You hadn't contemplated anything to the contrary, had you?"
inquired Jim.
They both smiled. Then Cleland Senior said in his pleasant, even
way:
"One can never tell.... And in case you and Steve have to plod
along without me some day, before either of you are really wise
enough to dispense with my invaluable advice, try to understand her,
Jim. Try always; try patiently.... Because I made myself
responsible.... And, for all her honesty and sweetness and her
obedience, Jim, there is—perhaps—restless blood in Steve.... There
may even be the creative instinct in her also.... She's very young to
develop it yet—to show whether it really is there and amounts to
anything.... I should like to live long enough to see—to guide her for
the next few years——"
"Of course you are going to live to see Steve's kiddies!" cried
the young fellow in cordially scornful protest. "You know perfectly
well, Father, that you don't look your age!"
"Don't I?" said Cleland Senior, with a faint smile.
"And you feel all right, don't you, Father?" insisted the boy in
that rather loud, careless voice which often chokes tenderness
between men. For the memory that these two shared in common
made them doubly sensitive to the lightest hint that everything was
not entirely right with either.
"Do you feel perfectly well?" repeated the son, looking at his
father with smiling intentness.
"Perfectly," replied Cleland Senior, lying.
He had another chat with Dr. Wilmer the following afternoon. It
had been an odd affair, and both physician and patient seemed to
prefer to speculate about it rather than to come to any conclusion.
It was this. A week or two previous, lying awake in bed after
retiring for the night, Cleland seemed to lose consciousness for an
interval—probably a very brief interval; and revived, presently, to
find himself upright on the floor beside his bed, holding to one of the
carved posts, and unable to articulate.
He made no effort to arouse anybody; after a while—but how
long he seemed unable to remember clearly—he returned to bed
and fell into a heavy sleep. And in the morning when he awoke, the
power of speech had returned to him.
But he felt irritable, depressed and tired. That was his story. And
the question he had asked Dr. Wilmer was a simple one.
But the physician either could not or would not be definite in his
answer. His reply was in the nature of a grave surmise. But the
treatment ordered struck Cleland as ominously significant.

CHAPTER X

To any young man his first flirtation with Literature is a heart-rending

affair, although the jade takes it lightly enough.
But that muse is a frivolous youngster and plagues her young
lovers to the verge of distraction.
And no matter how serious a new aspirant may be or how
determined to remain free from self-consciousness, refrain from
traditional mental attitudes and censor every impulse toward "fine
writing," his frivolous muse beguiles him and flatters him, and leads
him on until he has succumbed to every deadly scribbler's sin in his
riotous progress of a literary rake.
The only hope for him is that his muse may some day take
enough interest in him to mangle his feelings and exterminate his
adjectives.
Every morning Jim remained for hours hunched up at his table,
fondling his first-born novel. The period of weaning was harrowing.
Joy, confidence, pride, excitement, moments of mental intoxication,
were succeeded by every species of self-distrust, alarm, funk, slump,
and most horrid depression.
One day he felt himself to be easily master of the English
language; another day he feared that a public school examination
would reveal him as a hopeless illiterate. Like all beginners, he had
swallowed the axiom that genius worked only when it had a few
moments to spare from other diversions; and he tried it out. The
proposition proved to be a self-evident fake.
It was to his own credit that he finally discovered that
inspiration comes with preparedness; that the proper place for
creative inspiration was a seat at his desk with pencil and pad before
him; that the pleasure of self-expression must become a habit as
well as a pleasure, and not an occasional caprice to be casually
gratified; and that technical excellence is acquired at the daily work-
bench alone, and not among the talkers of talk.
So the boy began to form his habit of work; discovered that
sooner or later a receptive mind resulted; and, realizing that
inspiration came when preparations for its reception had been made,
gradually got over his earlier beliefs in the nonsense talked about
genius and the commercializing of the same. And so he ceased
getting out of bed to record a precious thought, and refrained from
sitting up until two in the morning to scribble. He plugged ahead as
long as he could stand it; and late in the afternoon he went out to
hunt for relaxation, which, except for the creative, is the only other
known species of true pleasure.
Except for their conveniences as to lavatories and bars, there
are very few clubs in New York worth belonging to; and only one to
which it is an honour to belong.
In this club Cleland Senior sat now, very often, instead of
pursuing his daily course among print-shops, auction rooms, and
private collections of those beautiful or rare or merely curious and
interesting objects which for many years it had been his pleasure to
nose out and sometimes acquire.
For now that his son was busy writing for the greater portion of
the day, and Stephanie had gone away to college, Cleland Senior
gradually became conscious of a subtle change which was beginning
within himself—a tendency to relax mentally and physically—a vague
realization that his work in life had been pretty nearly accomplished
and that it was almost time to rest.
With this conviction came a tendency to depression, inclination
for silence and retrospection, not entirely free from melancholy. Not
unnoticed by his physician, either, who had arrived at his own
conclusions. The medical treatment, however, continued on the
same lines sketched out by the first prescriptions, except that all
narcotics and stimulants were forbidden.
John Cleland now made it a custom to go every day to his club,
read in the great, hushed library, gossip with the older members,
perhaps play a game of chess with some friend of his early youth,
lunch there with ancient cronies, sometimes fall asleep in one of the
great, deep chairs in the lounging hall. And, as he had always been
constitutionally moderate, the physician's edict depriving him of his
cigar and his claret annoyed him scarcely at all. Always he returned
to the home on 80th Street, when his only son was likely to be free
from work; and together they dined at home, or more rarely at
Delmonico's; and sometimes they went together to some theatre or
concert.
For they were nearer to each other than they had ever been in
their lives during those quiet autumn and winter days together; and
they shared every thought—almost every thought—only Cleland had
never spoken to his son about the medicine he was taking regularly,
nor of that odd experience when he had found himself standing
dazed and speechless by his own bed in the silence and darkness of
early morning.
Stephanie came back at Christmas—a lovely surprise—a supple,
grey-eyed young thing, grown an inch and a half taller, flower-fresh,
instinct with the intoxicating vigour and delight of mere living, and
tremulous with unuttered and very youthful ideas about everything
on earth.
She kissed Cleland Senior, clung to him, caressed him. But for
the first time her demonstration ended there; she offered her hand
to Jim in flushed and slightly confused silence.
"What's the matter with you, Steve?" demanded the youth, half
laughing, half annoyed. "You think you're too big to kiss me? By
Jove, you shall kiss me——!"
And he summarily saluted her.
 She got away from him immediately with an odd little laugh,
and held tightly to Cleland Senior again.
"Dad darling, darling!" she murmured, "I'm glad I'm back. Are
you? Do you really want me? And I'm going to tell you right now, I
don't wish to have you arrange parties and dinners and dances and
things for me. All I want is to be with you and go to the theatre
every night——"
"Good Lord, Steve! That's no programme for a pretty little girl!"
"I'm not! Don't call me that! I've got a mind! But I have got
such lots to learn—so many, many things to learn! And only one life
to learn them in——"
"Fiddle!" remarked Jim.
"It really isn't fiddle, Jim! I'm just crazy to learn things, and I'm
not one bit interested in frivolity and ordinary things and people——"
"You liked people once; you liked to dance——"
"When I was a child, yes," she retorted scornfully. "But I realize,
now, how short life is——"
"Fiddle," repeated Jim. "That fool college is spoiling you for
fair!"
"Dad! He's a brute! You understand me, darling, don't you?
Don't let him plague me."
His arm around her slender shoulder tightened; all three were
laughing.
"You don't have to dance, Steve, if you don't want to," he said.
"Do you consider it frivolous to dine occasionally? Meacham has just
announced the possibility of food."
She nestled close to him as they went out to dinner, all three
very gay and loquacious, and the two men keenly conscious of the
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