f it to me," added Toni
rather wistfully.

"I don't suppose he's got very far," said Barry, wondering whether she
felt slighted by the omission. "Owen is a quick worker, I know, but he
has only been at it for a week or two."

"Oh, I know," she replied hastily. "But how will he go on with it? He
can't write with his left hand, can he?"

"Not very well." An idea struck Barry, and without stopping to think he
gave it utterance. "Look here, Mrs. Rose, you can help Owen no end! You
must take it down for him. You could easily scribble it off and then
type it out afterwards, couldn't you?"

Into Toni's eyes flashed a light of pure joy.

"Oh, do you think I could! I'd do anything--anything to help Owen," she
said eagerly. "It wouldn't be like his articles, full of quotations and
things that want verifying, would it? I mean even a stupid girl--like
me--could do it, couldn't she?"

"You're not stupid," he rallied her gaily. "Look how quickly you learned
to read proof! And even the superior Miss Loder doesn't type as well as
you!"

"Doesn't she!" Toni's depression had vanished like magic, and her eyes
were sparkling as she looked at him. "Oh, if I could! But I don't
believe I dare offer, Mr. Raymond! Do you think if _you_ were to mention
it to Owen----"

"Oh, it would come much better from you!" Barry, whose interference on
the subject of Owen's marriage had not been too well received, shrank
from further officiousness. "If you propose it, I'm sure Owen will jump
at it; and he won't mind his enforced helplessness half so much if he
can get on with the book."

For a moment Toni said nothing.

The rain had ceased, and in the darkened sky one or two pale-gold stars
were gleaming. The air was full of sweet, moist scents; and a big white
owl flew by the window, looking weird and ghostly in the dusk. A moment
later they heard him hoot from his eyrie in one of the tall tree-tops,
and Toni shivered a little.

"I can't get used to their queer cries," she said in a low voice.
"Sometimes I hear them in the night, and they make me shudder. Owen
laughs at me, and quotes Shakespeare, about the owl and the baker's
daughter, but I hate them, all the same."

"I rather like them," said Barry lightly. "Anyway, you mustn't drive
them away; it's the very worst of luck to turn them out of their
accustomed dwelling-places!"

"Then, they'll have to stop, I suppose," said Toni practically. "But I
shall go on hating them all the same!"