an inexpressible light of triumph.  “I had one great month of life.  Even you cannot have had more in all your years of the world than I in my month!  And then he returned to his work again.  He was very busy, you understand, a great man, even then, in the world of letters.  He could not come to see me, could not leave; but he wrote every day.  He will never put into his book such words as he wrote me; he gave me more than he has ever given the world.  It may have his books.  I have read them, but I have his very soul in these letters!

“I told you he made me believe that I could write.  ’What was I, what was I,’ I used to ask myself, ‘to be lifted from this to his height?’ And then I had a secret, which began in that thought.  I wrote a novel.  It is eight years back now.  I never mentioned it in my letters.  I knew it was good, as good as his own work.  He would be so proud!  He talked of publishing-houses, books, authors.  I had not forgotten one word.  I sent it to a house, one of the largest and best, and it was accepted.  It is strange, but I was not at all surprised.  Somehow I had never doubted it would be accepted.  And then I went to the city alone for a day.  I had only a little time; it seemed to me the greatest act of my life to be there, where he was, yet not to see him!  But you see I had planned it all in those long nights when the autumn storms would not let me sleep.  The rain would dash against this window, and half awake, I would see 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.