deep down in his heart, felt a certainty that his work would receive
recognition. But, still, he would argue with himself, his feeling
of confidence might very well be due to the dear old gentlewoman's
enthusiastic faith in him rather than in any merit in the book itself;
and it was a well-established fact--to all unpublished writers at
least--that publishers are a heartless folk, and exceedingly loth to
extend a helpful hand to unrecognized genius, however great the worth of
its offering. He could scarcely believe the letters which announced the
good news. It did not seem possible that this all-important first step
toward the success which Auntie Sue so confidently predicted for his
book was now an accomplished fact.

And now that Betty Jo's mission was completed, it seemed months ago that
he had said good-bye to her and had watched the train disappear between
the hills. But when at last the long whistle echoing and reechoing from
the timbered mountain-sides announced the coming of the train that was
bringing her back, and the train itself a moment later burst into view
and, with a rushing roar of steam and wheels and brakes, came to a stop
at the depot platform, and there was Betty Jo herself, it seemed that it
was only yesterday that she had gone away.

Very calm and self-possessed and well poised was Betty Jo when
she stepped from the train to meet him. She was very capable and
businesslike as she claimed her baggage and saw it safely in the spring
wagon. But still there was a something in her manner--a light in the
gray eyes, perhaps, or a quality in the clear voice--that meant worlds
more to the man than her simple statement, that she was glad to see him
again. Laughingly, she refused to tell him about her trip as they rode
home, saying that Auntie Sue must hear it all with him. And so conscious
was the man of her presence there beside him that, somehow, the