myself when he should come, with my head against his arm, saying, 'I
have been making something for you. Guess.' And then he would laugh and
say, 'Perhaps--is it a cake for my tea, home-darling? Is it--is it a
cover for my writing-table? No, you do not sew. Tell me.' And then I
should say proudly. 'It is nothing of that kind. It is a book, and the
people whom you think such good judges say it must be a success!' I saw
it again as I was coming down the stairs from the publisher's office.
They had praised my work until the blood seemed all in my head and made
me dizzy, and the sounds of Broadway confused my country ears.

"At home that dusk my letter stood against the mantel as I came in
here. I laughed when I saw the post-mark, to think I had been there. I
laid it against my cheek softly where his hand had touched it, writing
my name. It so prolonged the pleasure--you know--you are a woman like
that. And at last I read it here." She posed herself unconsciously by
the table. "It said, 'Have I loved you? I do not know. Curse me, and
forget me. I am to be married to-day.'"

A pin from my hair fell to the bare floor and broke the silence with its
frivolous click. The tears were raining down my cheeks. She did not look
at me now. She stood grasping the table with one tense hand, her white
face thrown a little back. Just as she had stood, I knew, eight
purgatorial years ago.

The story was done. She sank into the chair.

"And the book?" I asked at length.

She roused from her reverie. "Oh! yes, the book. It had no purpose to
live for, you see. I sent for it, cancelled the agreement. They wrote to