!" She nodded brightly. "The finest thing in the world has
happened."

He looked dully at the letter which ought to have meant so much to him.

"I had forgotten that."

"It means you can go back to your own profession, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so. Yes, it means that."

"It has been like a story, hasn't it? This summer, I mean. A
beautiful story! In the beginning you came to the office--to prison,
you said. And I was plodding along, trying to make myself believe that
I liked bookkeeping. A pair of lame ducks we were, with broken wings.
I'm a little sorry for us yet--aren't you? But now we-- Do you think
it would hurt you if I raised the shades? It's such a glorious morning
and I love sunshine."

"It wouldn't hurt, of course."

She went to the windows and raised the shades and the morning radiance,
the light in which all hues are seen as they are, flooded the room.
Then she went back to her seat beside him.

"That is much better, isn't it? . . . A beautiful story! Now our
wings are strong again. . . ."

And so she went on, painting in the brightest colors she knew how to
mix what she supposed the future held for them. She tried to make it
splendid. St. Mark's was to be but a beginning. He was to go very
far, building many beautiful churches, striving to make each a little
finer than the one before, until he was famous throughout the
land--"Which is worth something, of course, but not half so much as
knowing that you have done good work. You remember, I said once that
would be your great reward." She was to live outdoors, careful not to
overdo her voice practise at first. After a while, when she had grown
stronger, she would study hard to make up for the years she had lost,
perhaps go abroad to work under the great voice builders and coaches
there. And "some day," perhaps, rumor would tell him of a new
contralto whom people loved to hear sing. . . . It was a little
childish, no doubt, and rather overdone.

But he did not think of that. He was not listening. He was seeing,
not the picture she painted but that which she made, there in the
sunshine. She was whiter than ever. Deep shadows were under her eyes.
But the eyes themselves were very steady, her voice never quavered, nor
did the smile flicker. Where did she get her spirit, this slender
fragile girl who seemed so in need of another's strength for support?

And upon the bright brave soul of her he had wanted to put a stain. He
co