Then Margaret read.  She had chosen a short chapter which was in itself almost a complete little story.  She read exceedingly well and without faltering.  People listened with ever-growing amazement.  Then Mrs. Jack Evarts whispered so audibly to a man at her side that she broke in upon Margaret’s clear recitative.  “Goodness, she’s reading from that book that is selling so,—­The Poor Lady—­I remember every word of that chapter.”

Then while Margaret continued her reading imperturbably, the chorus of whispers increased.  “That is from The Poor Lady, yes, it is.  Did she write it?  Why, of course, she did.  She just said so.  Isn’t it wonderful that she has done such a thing?”

Wilbur Edes sat with his eyes riveted upon his wife’s face, his own gone quite pale, but upon it an expression of surprise and joy so intense that he looked almost foolish from such a revelation of his inner self.

The young girl beside him drove hair pins frantically into her hair.  She twisted up a lock which had strayed and fastened it.  She looked alternately at Wilbur and Margaret.

“Goodness gracious,” said she, and did not trouble to whisper.  “That is the next to the last chapter of The Poor Lady.  And to think that your wife wrote it!  Goodness gracious, and here she has been living right here in Fairbridge all the time and folks have been seeing her and talking to her and never knew!  Did you know, Mr. Edes?”

The young girl fixed her sharp pretty eyes upon Wilbur.  “Never dreamed of it,” he blurted out, “just as much surprised as any of you.”

“I don’t believe I could have kept such a wonderful thing as that from my own husband,” said the girl, who was unmarried, and had no lover.  But Wilbur did not hear.  All he heard was his beloved Margaret, who had secretly achieved fame for herself, reading on and on.  He had not the slightest idea what she was reading.  He had no interest whatever in that.  All he cared for was the amazing fact that his wife, his wonderful, beautiful Margaret, had so covered herself with glory and honour.  He had a slightly hurt feeling because she had not told him until this public revelation.  He felt that his own private joy and pride as her husband should have been perhaps sacred and respected by her and yet possibly she was right.  This public glory might have seemed to her the one which would the most appeal to him.

He had, as he had said, not read the book, but he recalled with a sort of rapturous tenderness for Margaret how he had seen the posters all along the railroad as he commuted to the city, and along the elevated road.  His face gazing at Margaret was as beautiful in its perfectly unselfish pride and affection, as a mother’s.  To think that his darling had done such a thing!  He longed to be at home alone with her and say to her what he could not say before all these people.  He thought of a very good reason why she had chosen this occasion to proclaim her authorship