ogetically but
still as if she really thought hers had been a romantic career, "I know
I have not deserved it, but I got it."

"Oh, ma'am," I cried reproachfully, "reflect. You have not got the great
thing." I saw her counting the great things in her mind, her wondrous
husband and his obscure success, David, Barbara, and the other trifling
contents of her jewel-box.

"I think I have," said she.

"Come, madam," I cried a little nettled, "you know that there is lacking
the one thing you craved for most of all."

Will you believe me that I had to tell her what it was? And when I had
told her she exclaimed with extraordinary callousness, "The book? I
had forgotten all about the book!" And then after reflection she added,
"Pooh!" Had she not added Pooh I might have spared her, but as it was
I raised the blotting-pad rather haughtily and presented her with the
sheet beneath it.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Ma'am," said I, swelling, "it is a Dedication," and I walked
majestically to the window.

There is no doubt that presently I heard an unexpected sound. Yet if
indeed it had been a laugh she clipped it short, for in almost the
same moment she was looking large-eyed at me and tapping my sleeve
impulsively with her fingers, just as David does when he suddenly likes
you.

"How characteristic of you," she said at the window.

"Characteristic," I echoed uneasily. "Ha!"

"And how kind."

"Did you say kind, ma'am?"

"But it is I who have the substance and you who have the shadow, as you
know very well," said she.

Yes, I had always known that this was the one flaw in my dedication,
but how could I have expected her to have the wit to see it? I was very
depressed.

"And there is another mistake," said she.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but that is the only one."

"It was never of my little white bird I wanted to write," she said.

I looked politely incredulous, and then indeed she overwhelmed me. "It
was of your little white bird," she said, "it was of a little boy whose
name was Timothy."

She had a very pretty way of saying Timothy, so David and I went into
another room to leave her alone with the manuscript of this poor little
book, and when we returned she had the greatest surprise of the day for
me. She was both laughing and crying, which was no surprise, for all of
us would laugh and cry over a book about such an interesting subject
as ourselves, but said she, "How wrong you are in thinking this book is
about