en the familiar scenes filled him with an
intolerable longing to see again the eyes that had inspired him, to hear
the voice that was like no other in the world, to take the little hand
that had often been so frankly placed in his, and to draw to him the form
in which was embodied all the grace and tender witchery of womanhood.
But the knowledge of what she expected of him was an inspiration,
always present in his visions of her.

Something of his hopes and fears Alice divined, and he felt her sympathy,
although she did not intrude upon his reticence by any questions. They
talked about Evelyn, but it was Evelyn in Rivervale, not in Newport. In
fact, the sensible girl could regard her cousin's passion as nothing more
than a romance in a young author's life, and to her it was a sign of his
security that he had projected a new story.

With instinctive perception of his need, she was ever turning his
thoughts upon his literary career. Of course she and all the household
seemed in a conspiracy to flatter and encourage the vanity of authorship.
Was not all the village talking about the reputation he had conferred on
it? Was it not proud of him? Indeed, it did imagine that the world
outside of Rivervale was very much interested in him, and that he was
already an author of distinction. The county Gazette had announced, as
an important piece of news, that the author of The Puritan Nun was on a
visit to his relatives, the Maitlands. This paragraph seemed to stand
out in the paper as an almost immodest exposure of family life, read
furtively at first, and not talked of, and yet every member of the family
was conscious of an increase in the family importance. Aunt Patience
discovered, from her outlook on the road, that summer visitors had a
habit of driving or walking past the house and then turning back to look
at it again.

So Philip was not only distinguished, but he had the power of conferring
distinction. No one can envy a young author this first taste of fame,
this home recognition. Whatever he may do hereafter, how much more
substantial rewards he may attain, this first sweetness of incense to his
ambition will never come to him again.

When Philip returned to town, the city was still a social desert,
and he plunged into the work piled up on his desk, the never-ceasing
accumulation of manuscripts, most of them shells which the workers have
dredged up from the mud of the literary ocean, in which the eager
publisher is alw