ing was written:

_From C.A. Benton to Mrs. John Henderson Fyfe_
_A Belated Wedding Gift_

She cut the string, and delved into the cardboard box, and gasped. Out
of a swathing of tissue paper her hands bared sundry small articles. A
little cap and jacket of knitted silk--its double in fine, fleecy
yarn--a long silk coat--a bonnet to match,--both daintily embroidered.
Other things--a shoal of them--baby things. A grin struggled for
lodgment on Fyfe's freckled countenance. His blue eyes twinkled.

"I suppose," he growled, "that's Charlie's idea of a joke, huh?"

Stella turned away from the tiny garments, one little, hood crumpled
tight in her hand. She laid her hot face against his breast and her
shoulders quivered. She was crying.

"Stella, Stella, what's the matter?" he whispered.

"It's no joke," she sobbed. "It's a--it's a reality."

CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH EVENTS MARK TIME

From that day on Stella found in her hands the reins over a smooth,
frictionless, well-ordered existence. Sam Foo proved himself such a
domestic treasure as only the trained Oriental can be. When the labor of
an eight-room dwelling proved a little too much for him, he urbanely
said so. Thereupon, at Fyfe's suggestion, he imported a fellow
countryman, another bland, silent-footed model of efficiency in personal
service. Thereafter Stella's task of supervision proved a sinecure.

A week or so after their return, in sorting over some of her belongings,
she came across the check Charlie had given her: that two hundred and
seventy dollars which represented the only money she had ever earned in
her life. She studied it a minute, then went out to where her husband
sat perched on the verandah rail.

"You might cash this, Jack," she suggested.

He glanced at the slip.

"Better have it framed as a memento," he said, smiling. "You'll never
earn two hundred odd dollars so hard again, I hope. No, I'd keep it, if
I were you. If ever you should need it, it'll always be good--unless
Charlie goes broke."

There never had been any question of money between them. From the day
of their marriage Fyfe had made her a definite monthly allowance, a
greater sum than she needed or spent.

"As a matter of fact," he went on, "I'm going to open an account in your
name at the Royal Bank, so you can negotiate your own paper and pay your
own bills by check."

She went in and put away the check. It was hers, earned, all too
literally, in the swe