"Oh, don't!" he cried. "Don't suggest that--just now."

She caught the sudden sharp pain in his voice and looked at him
wonderingly.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," he answered, his voice gone dull now. "I guess I've been
working harder than I thought and am pretty tired."

"You'd better go to bed early and get a good sleep."

"Yes," he said, "I'm going to do that."

But he did not do that. Instead, for the last time, he stayed up until
nearly morning in the company of his completed work. It was as if he
watched the night out with a loved one who in the morning must go upon
a long uncertain journey. . . . This also Shirley, had she known,
would have called very temperamental.

For a month they waited, a feverish, anxious but always hopeful month,
for the committee's decision.

And then one morning as he sat idly in his office an errand boy came,
under his arm a long round parcel.

"Mr. Bixby sent me with this."

When the boy was gone David quickly ripped open the parcel. It
contained his sketches and plans. With them was a note.

"As we have accepted the plans submitted by Mr. Richard Holden, we
return yours herewith. Thanking you for. . . ."

The rest was a dancing blur. . . .

It was mid-afternoon when he rose from his table. The first dizzying
shock had passed, but a dull unceasing ache was left and he was very
tired. He tried to smile, to gather together the tatters of his
courage and faith, but he could not think of the future. When he tried
to think of Shirley a sickening qualm rushed over him, leaving him weak
and nerveless.

"Poor Shirley!" he muttered. "How can I tell her? Poor Shirley!"

Mechanically he put on his hat and overcoat and went out. It was
storming. He had no umbrella, and if he had had one it would have been
but scanty shelter against the driving rain. But he did not care. He
was even glad of the storm and the discomfort of wet feet and clothes.

For an hour he splashed aimlessly through the city's streets. Then he
turned slowly but doggedly homeward.

"Poor Shirley!" he kept saying to himself. "I mustn't let her see how
it hurts. I must put a brave face on it before her."

He was half-way home when he stopped with a sudden "Oh!" that was
almost a groan. A memory had cut even through his misery. It was
their fourth anniversary!

He took out what money was in his pocket, counted it and tramped back
through the rain until he came to a florist