She waited, watching Jimmie’s stroke, while the Peterboro slipped out from the boathouse and rose quartering to the swells of a passing launch.  Her hat was placed carefully behind her in the bow, and the light wind roughened her hair, which was parted on the side, into small rings on her forehead.  It gave her an air of boyish camaraderie, and the young author’s glance, moving from the magazine and the ring, swept her whole trim figure to the mannish, flat-heeled little shoes, and returned to her face.  “This is my red-letter day,” he said.

“It’s the proudest in my life,” answered Geraldine, and the way in which she said it made him catch his breath.

“It makes me feel almost sure enough to cut loose from the Press and go into business for myself.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t be in a hurry to leave the paper, if I were you,” she replied, “even though Sampson’s has asked to see more of your work.”

“It isn’t the magazine opening I am considering; though I shall do what I can in that way, of course.  But what would you think of an offer to take full charge of a newspaper east of the Cascades?  It’s so.”  He paused, nodding in emphasis to the confirmation.  “The letter is there in my coat pocket.  It’s from Bailey—­you remember that young fellow I told you about who made an investment in the Wenatchee valley.  Well, it seems they have incorporated a town on some of that property.  His city lots are selling so fast he has raised the price three times.  And they have put him up for mayor.  He says it’s mighty hard to run an election without a newspaper, and even if it’s a late start, we will be ready next time.  And the valley needs advertising; people in the east don’t know where Wenatchee apples grow.  You understand.  He will finance a newspaper—­or rather he and Lucky Banks are going to—­if I will take the management.  He is holding offices now, in a brick block that is building, until he hears from me.”

“Is it in Hesperides Vale, where the Bankses live?”

“Yes.  The name of the town is Weatherbee.  And I heard from that little miner, too.”  Jimmie paused, smiling at the recollection.  “It was a kind of supplement to Bailey’s letter.  He thought likely I could recommend some young fellow to start a newspaper.  A married man was preferred, as it was a new camp and in need of more ladies.”

Geraldine laughed, flushing softly, “Isn’t that just like him?” she said.  “I can see his eyes twinkling.”

“It sounds rather good to me,” Jimmie went on earnestly.  “I have confidence in Bailey.  And it was mother’s dream, you know, to see me establish a paper over there; it would mean something to me to see it realized—­but—­do you think you could give up your career to help me through?”

Geraldine was silent, and Jimmie leaned forward a little, resting on his stroke.  “I know I am not worth it, but so far as that goes, neither was my father; yet mother gave up everything to back him.  She kept him on that desert homestead the first five years, until he proved up and got his patent, and he might have stayed with it, been rich to-day, if she had lived.”