"Admitted," said he, laying down the manuscript, "and thank you for letting me see this. I claim the first refusal. Finish it, have it typed, and send it in, and if I can run it as a serial in The Child at Home, I shall be tremendously pleased to do so. If it goes, it ought to come out in book form, illustrated."
"You really think the idea has something in it?"
"I certainly do, and you know how much I believe in your work."
"Oh, I'm _so_ glad," she exclaimed, looking far more cheerful than he had seen her that evening.
He rose to go, and held her hand a moment in his friendly grasp.
"Good night, dear Mrs. Byrd; give my love to Elliston, and remember that in him and your work you have two priceless treasures which, even alone, will give you happiness."
"Oh, I know," she said, her eyes shining; "good night, and thank you for the house."
"Good night, and in the house's name, thank you," he answered from the door.
As she closed it, the brightness slowly faded from Mary's face. She looked at the clock--it was past ten.
"Not to-night, either," she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. "No, better not," she thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As, candle in hand, she passed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in. His bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought.
With a sigh, she entered her own room, and passed through it to the nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow, his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the house! It was the home of love--love lay all about her, in the kind protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices and faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and the sweetness of young life--and she was utterly lonely. One short year ago she thought she would never know loneliness again--only a year ago.
The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's spotless coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and carefully broke it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and lifting the baby, gave him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his sleep-laden eyes. She kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid him down, waiting while he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep.