om.

"Oh, dearest," she said, "I'm proud of you--and happy again."

They were, indeed, both happy, happier than they had been in weeks.

The next morning after breakfast, she saw by his manner, by the
humorous, almost comical expression about his eyes, that he had an idea.
In this mood of satisfaction--this mood that comes too seldom in the
artist's life--she knew it was wise to let him alone. And he lighted his
pipe and went to work. She heard him now and then, singing or whistling
or humming; she scented his pipe, then cigarettes; then, at last, after
two hours, he called in a loud, triumphant tone:

"Oh, Edith!"

She was at the door in an instant, and, waving his hand grandly at his
drawing-board, he turned to her with that expression which connotes the
greatest joy gods or mortals can know--the joy of beholding one's own
work and finding it good. He had, as she saw, returned to the cartoon of
Clayton he had laid aside when the tempter came; and now it was
finished. Its simple lines revealed Clayton's character, as the
sufficient answer to all the charges the _Telegraph_ might make against
him. Edith leaned against the door and looked long and critically.

"It was fine before," she said presently; "it's better now. Before it
was a portrait of the man; this shows his soul."

"Well, it's how he looks to me," said Neil, "after a month in which to
appreciate him."

"But what," she said, stooping and peering at the edge of the drawing,
where, despite much knife-scraping, vague figures appeared, "what's
that?"

"Oh, I'm ashamed to tell you," he said. "I'll have to paste over that
before it's electrotyped. You see, I had a notion of putting in the
gang, and I drew four little figures--Benson, Burns, Salton and Glenn;
they were plotting--oh, it was foolish and unworthy. I decided I didn't
want anything of hatred in it--just as he wouldn't want anything of
hatred in it; so I rubbed them out."

"Well, I'm glad. It is beautiful; it makes up for everything; it's an
appreciation--worthy of the man."

When Kittrell entered the office of the _Post_, the boys greeted him
with delight, and his presence made a sensation, for there had been
rumors of the break which the absence of a "Kit" cartoon in the
_Telegraph_ that morning had confirmed. But, if Hardy was surprised, his
surprise was swallowed up in his joy, and Kittrell was grateful to him
for the delicacy with which he touched the subject that consumed the
newspaper