lisms, Higginbotham's mental quirks and processes, were apparent
throughout. Martin saw in every line, not the fine Italian hand, but the
coarse grocer's fist, of his brother-in-law.

But why? he vainly questioned. What injury had he done Bernard
Higginbotham? The thing was so unreasonable, so wanton. There was no
explaining it. In the course of the week a dozen similar letters were
forwarded to Martin by the editors of various Eastern magazines. The
editors were behaving handsomely, Martin concluded. He was wholly
unknown to them, yet some of them had even been sympathetic. It was
evident that they detested anonymity. He saw that the malicious attempt
to hurt him had failed. In fact, if anything came of it, it was bound to
be good, for at least his name had been called to the attention of a
number of editors. Sometime, perhaps, reading a submitted manuscript of
his, they might remember him as the fellow about whom they had received
an anonymous letter. And who was to say that such a remembrance might
not sway the balance of their judgment just a trifle in his favor?

It was about this time that Martin took a great slump in Maria's
estimation. He found her in the kitchen one morning groaning with pain,
tears of weakness running down her cheeks, vainly endeavoring to put
through a large ironing. He promptly diagnosed her affliction as La
Grippe, dosed her with hot whiskey (the remnants in the bottles for which
Brissenden was responsible), and ordered her to bed. But Maria was
refractory. The ironing had to be done, she protested, and delivered
that night, or else there would be no food on the morrow for the seven
small and hungry Silvas.

To her astonishment (and it was something that she never ceased from
relating to her dying day), she saw Martin Eden seize an iron from the
stove and throw a fancy shirt-waist on the ironing-board. It was Kate
Flanagan's best Sunday waist, than whom there was no more exacting and
fastidiously dressed woman in Maria's world. Also, Miss Flanagan had
sent special instruction that said waist must be delivered by that night.
As every one knew, she was keeping company with John Collins, the
blacksmith, and, as Maria knew privily, Miss Flanagan and Mr. Collins
were going next day to Golden Gate Park. Vain was Maria's attempt to
rescue the garment. Martin guided her tottering footsteps to a chair,
from where she watched him with bulging eyes. In a quarter of the time
it w