id 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 of the famous anonymous novel. She had been
so humiliated, poor child, by the insufferable rudeness of that
Western girl that she naturally wished to make