ne, and it takes only a small one to dispel the shadows when
love dwells therein.

Chapter XXXVII

Ellen actually went to work, with sheets of foolscap and a new
bottle of ink, on a novel, which was not worth the writing; but no
one could estimate the comfort and encouragement it was to Andrew.
Ellen worked an hour or two every evening on the novel, and next day
Andrew copied it in a hand like copperplate--large, with ornate
flourishes. Andrew's handwriting had always been greatly admired,
and, strangely enough, it was not in the least indicative of his
character, being wholly acquired. He had probably some ability for
drawing, but this had been his only outlet.

At the head of every chapter of Ellen's novel were birds and flowers
done in colored inks, and every chapter had a tail-piece of elegant
quirls and flourishes. Fanny admired it intensely. She was not quite
so sure of Ellen's work as she was of her husband's. She felt
herself a judge of one, but not of the other.

"If Ellen could only write as well as you copy, it will do," she
often said to Andrew.

"What she is writing is beautiful," said Andrew, fervently. He was
quite sure in his own mind that such a book had never been written,
and his pride in his decorations was a minor one.

Ellen, although she was not versed in the ways of books, yet had
enough of a sense of the fitness of things, and of the ridiculous,
to know that the manuscript, with its impossible pen-and-ink birds
and flowers heading and finishing every chapter, was grotesque in
the extreme. She felt divided between a desire to laugh and a desire
to cry whenever she looked at it. About her own work she felt more
than doubtful; still, she was somewhat hopeful, since her taste and
judgment, as well as her style, were alike crude. She told Abby and
Maria what she was doing, under promise of strict secrecy, and after
a while read them a few chapters.

"It's beautiful," said Maria--"perfectly beautiful. I had a
Sunday-school book this week which I know wasn't half as good."

Ellen looked at Abby, who was silent. The three girls were up in
Ellen's room. It was midwinter, some months after she had gone to
work in the shop, and she had a fire in her little, air-tight stove.

"Well, what do you think of it, Abby?" asked Ellen. Ellen's cheeks
were flushed as if with fever. She looked eagerly at the other girl.

"Do you want me to tell you the truth?" asked Abby, bluntly.

"Yes, of cours