re, and the
husband of her heart: she became at a bound a successful novelist.
Nancy's cheek flushed with a splendid thought. Why should not _she_
do likewise? At all events--for modesty was now her ruling
characteristic--why should she not earn a little money by writing
Stories? Numbers of women took to it; not a few succeeded. It was a
pursuit that demanded no apprenticeship, that could be followed in the
privacy of home, a pursuit wherein her education would be of service.
With imagination already fired by the optimistic author, she began to
walk about the room and devise romantic incidents. A love story, of
course--and why not one very like her own? The characters were ready to
her hands. She would begin this very evening.

Mary saw the glow upon her face, the delightful frenzy in her eyes, and
wondered.

'I have an idea,' said Nancy. 'Don't ask me about it. Just leave me
alone. I think I see my way.'

Daily she secluded herself for several hours; and, whatever the literary
value of her labour, it plainly kept her in good spirits, and benefited
her health. Save for the visits to her baby, regular as before, she
hardly left home.

Jessica Morgan came very often, much oftener than Nancy desired; not
only was her talk wearisome, but it consumed valuable time. She much
desired to see the baby, and Nancy found it difficult to invent excuses
for her unwillingness. When importunity could not be otherwise defeated,
she pretended a conscientious scruple.

'I have deceived my husband in telling him that no one knows of our
marriage but Mary. If I let you see the child, I should feel that I was
deceiving him again. Don't ask me; I can't.'

Not unnaturally this struck Jessica as far-fetched. She argued against
it, and became petulant. Nancy lost patience, but remembered in time
that she was at Jessica's mercy, and, to her mortification, had to adopt
a coaxing, almost a suppliant, tone, with the result that Miss. Morgan's
overweening conceit was flattered into arrogance. Her sentimental
protestations became strangely mixed with a self-assertiveness very
galling to Nancy's pride. Without the slightest apparent cause for
ill-humour, she said one day:

'I do feel sorry for you; it must be a dreadful thing to have married a
man who has no sense of honour.'

Nancy fired up.

'What do you mean?'

'How can he have, when he makes you deceive people in this way for the
sake of the money he'll get?'

'He doesn't! It's my o