“Really, Kitty, a most beautiful wardrobe! and such an extraordinary piece of luck for such a little scatter-brain as you!  Why, they do say that Mr. Raymond’s last book is just wonderful.”

“Mr. Raymond’s last book!” And Kitty let the satin-lined morocco case, with all its ruby treasures, fall from her hand.

“Why, haven’t you read it, dear?  So clever, and all that, dear.”

Kitty had tact enough to turn the conversation; but just as soon as her visitor had gone, she faced her mother, with blazing eyes and cheeks, and said, “What is Max’s business—­a lawyer?”

“Gracious, Kitty!  What’s the matter?  He is a scientist, a professor, and a great—­”

“Writer?”

“Yes.”

“Writes books and magazine articles and things?”

“Yes.”

Kitty thought profoundly for a few moments, and then said, “I thought so. I wish Jack Warner was at home.”

“What for?”

“Only a little matter I should like to have out with him; but it will keep.”

Jack, however, went South without visiting New York, and when he returned, pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max Raymond for two years.  His first visit was to Tom Duffan’s parlor-studio.  He was painting and singing and chatting to his wife as usual.  It was so like old times that Jack’s eyes filled at the memory when he asked where and how was Mrs. Raymond.

“Oh, the professor had bought a beautiful place eight miles from the city.  Kitty and he preferred the country.  Would he go and see them?”

Certainly Jack would go.  To tell the truth, he was curious to see what other miracles matrimony had wrought upon Kitty.  So he went, and came back wondering.

“Really, dear,” says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, “how does the professor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?”

“Get along with her?  Why, he couldn’t get along without her!  She sorts his papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copies his manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, through thick and thin, by day and night.  It’s wonderful, by Jove!  I felt spiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing on earth should ever induce her to marry a writer.”

“What did she say?”

“She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, ’Jack Warner, you are as dark as ever.  I did not marry the writer, I married the man.’  Then I said, ’I suppose all this study and reading and writing is your offering toward the advancement of science and social regeneration?’”

“What then?”

“She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, ’Dark again, Jack; it is a labor of love.’”

“Well I never!”

“Nor I either.”

THE HARVEST OF THE WIND.

CHAPTER I.