The letter despatched to the letter-box by Teresa, Martin lay back and thought.  It wasn’t a lie, after all.  The White Mouse paid on acceptance.  There were three thousand words in “The Whirlpool.”  Cut down a third, there would be two thousand.  At forty dollars that would be two cents a word.  Pay on acceptance and two cents a word—­the newspapers had told the truth.  And he had thought the White Mouse a third-rater!  It was evident that he did not know the magazines.  He had deemed the Transcontinental a first-rater, and it paid a cent for ten words.  He had classed the White Mouse as of no account, and it paid twenty times as much as the Transcontinental and also had paid on acceptance.

Well, there was one thing certain:  when he got well, he would not go out looking for a job.  There were more stories in his head as good as “The Whirlpool,” and at forty dollars apiece he could earn far more than in any job or position.  Just when he thought the battle lost, it was won.  He had proved for his career.  The way was clear.  Beginning with the White Mouse he would add magazine after magazine to his growing list of patrons.  Hack-work could be put aside.  For that matter, it had been wasted time, for it had not brought him a dollar.  He would devote himself to work, good work, and he would pour out the best that was in him.  He wished Ruth was there to share in his joy, and when he went over the letters left lying on his bed, he found one from her.  It was sweetly reproachful, wondering what had kept him away for so dreadful a length of time.  He reread the letter adoringly, dwelling over her handwriting, loving each stroke of her pen, and in the end kissing her signature.

And when he answered, he told her recklessly that he had not been to see her because his best clothes were in pawn.  He told her that he had been sick, but was once more nearly well, and that inside ten days or two weeks (as soon as a letter could travel to New York City and return) he would redeem his clothes and be with her.

But Ruth did not care to wait ten days or two weeks.  Besides, her lover was sick.  The next afternoon, accompanied by Arthur, she arrived in the Morse carriage, to the unqualified delight of the Silva tribe and of all the urchins on the street, and to the consternation of Maria.  She boxed the ears of the Silvas who crowded about the visitors on the tiny front porch, and in more than usual atrocious English tried to apologize for her appearance.  Sleeves rolled up from soap-flecked arms and a wet gunny-sack around her waist told of the task at which she had been caught.  So flustered was she by two such grand young people asking for her lodger, that she forgot to invite them to sit down in the little parlor.  To enter Martin’s room, they passed through the kitchen, warm and moist and steamy from the big washing in progress.  Maria, in her excitement, jammed the bedroom and bedroom-closet doors together, and for five minutes, through the partly open door, clouds of steam, smelling of soap-suds and dirt, poured into the sick chamber.