And growing upon him was his joy in his work: not the old boyish
enthusiasm at the thought of ultimate recognition, nor yet the later
gratification that he was earning money against their needs, but a
deep-seated content merely to be in it, an almost personal affection
for the sketches which, after a lapse, had once more begun to multiply.
Gently overruling Shirley's protests, he had taken to sitting up late
of nights after she had retired. Then in the pregnant silence of
midnight he would sit before his easel, smoking furiously and
occasionally making a light swift stroke, until the clock struck one or
two or even three. Many nights would pass thus, and there on the easel
would stand a restful little chapel or a noble cathedral, with separate
sketches for details such as doors or rood screen or altar, the very
presentment of which, if only in black-and-white, filled him with a
solemn worshipful glow. He did not hug himself or say that "they"
would have to come to him yet, but would pat the sketch lingeringly,
thinking, "I'd like to see you _real_."

The next evening he would show the completed sketch to Shirley, who
would give it a cursory glance and say:

"It's very pretty. I wish some one would let you build it. It would
be a big commission, wouldn't it?"

"Yes," he would answer, with a slight sinking of his heart. For some
reason he would tuck the sketch away in the big portfolio and hastily
change the subject.

One evening the house shook in the wind. It was after dinner and David
was opening a new book he had brought home, a bulky volume bearing the
formidable title, _Ecclesiastical Architecture Since the Renaissance_.
Shirley found a seat as close as possible to him and began.

"David, I have a confession to make." A smile proclaimed her assurance
of absolution.

"Yes," he smiled back.

"I broke a rule. I--had something charged."

"Oh, Shirley, when we--"

"But wait until you see what it is. Then scold me if you can."

She led him into another room where on a bed reposed a hooded wicker
basket, lined and covered in silk--blue for a boy--with fine lace
trimmings. She awaited his verdict.

"It's very pretty. But-- How much was it?"

She named the price.

He whistled. "Wouldn't something cheaper have done as well?"

"David, you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Her indignation was
three-fourths in earnest. "_I'd_ be ashamed not to get Davy Junior the
very best of everything. It's t