By steps, as she came, her beauty of form, face, and soul grew on Mrs. Chester’s sight, and when, in the house, with her sunset halo quenched and her presence more perfectly humanized, her smile and voice crowned the revelation, it happened as Geoffry had said it would; the mother’s heart went out to her in fond and complete acceptance.

To the four women taking seats with her the laying of a graceful hat off her dark hair was the dissolving of one lovely picture into another unmarred by the fact that a letter which she held in her fingers was the publishers’ latest word to Chester.  But now, as her own silent gaze fell on it held in her lap in both hands, so did theirs, till her fingers shook and she bit her lip.  Then—­“Never mind to read it, chere,” Mme. De l’Isle said, “juz’ tell us.  We are prepare’ for the worz’.  They want to poz’pone the pewblication, or they don’t want to pay in advanz’?”

Aline lifted so bright a smile through her tears that every heart grew lighter.  “They don’t want it at all,” she said.  “They have sent it back!”

“Oh-h-h!  Impossible!” exclaimed the two sisters, their eyes filling.  “The clerk he’s put the wrong letter—­letter for another party!”

Aline smiled again.  “No; Mr. Chester, he has the manuscript.  Ah, you poor”—­again she smiled, biting her lip and wiping her tears.  Then she turned, looked steadfastly into Mrs. Chester’s face, and suddenly handed her the missive.  “Read it out.”

Mrs. Chester did so.  As history, it said, the paper’s interest was too merely encyclopaedic for magazine use, while as romance it was too much a story of peoples, not persons; romantic yet not romance.  As to book form the same drawbacks held, besides the fact that there was not enough of it, not one-fifth enough, for even a small book.

When the reader would have handed the letter back it was agreed instead that she should give it to her son.  “What does he purpose to do?” she inquired.  “This is the judgment of but one publisher, and there are——­”

“In the North,” Mme. De l’Isle broke in, “they got mo’ than a dozen pewblisher’!”

“Whiles one,” the sisters pleaded, “tha’z all we require!”

“I know that,” said Aline to the four. “’Twas of that we were speaking at the gate.  But”—­to Mrs. Chester—­“that judgment of the one publisher is become our judgment also.  So this evening he will bring you the manuscript, and in two or three days, when we come to see you, my two aunt’ and me—­I, you can give it me.”

“May I read it?  I’ve been to Ovide’s and read ‘The Clock in the Sky.’”

“Yes?  Well, if later we have the good, chance to find, in our vieux carre, we and our coterie, and Ovide, some more stories, true romances, we’ll maybe try again; but till then—­ah, no.”

Mrs. Chester touched the girl caressingly.  “My dear, you will!  Every house looks as if it could tell at least one, including that large house and garden just over the way.”