f carbon waited in the drawer of Uncle Ebeneezer's desk. His
worn _Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases_ was at his elbow. And they
were poor. Then Harlan laughed, for they were no longer poor, and he had
wholly forgotten it.

There was a step upon the porch outside, then Dorothy came into the hall.
She paused outside the library door for a moment, ostensibly to tie her
shoe, but in reality to listen. A wave of remorseful tenderness
overwhelmed Harlan and he unlocked the door. "Come in," he said, smiling.
"You needn't be afraid to come in any more. The book is all done."

"O Harlan, is it truly done?" There was no gladness in her voice, only
relief. Doubt was in every intonation of her sentence; incredulity in
every line of her body.

With this pitiless new insight of his, Harlan saw how she had felt for
these last weeks and became very tenderly anxious not to hurt her; to
shield his transformed self from her quick understanding.

"Really," he answered. "Have I been a beast, Dorothy?"

The question was so like the boy she used to know that her heart leaped
wildly, then became portentously still.

"Rather," she admitted, grudgingly, from the shelter of his arms.

"I'm sorry. If you say so, I'll burn it. Nothing is coming between you and
me." The words sounded hollow and meaningless, as he knew they were.

She put her hand over his mouth. "You won't do any such thing," she said.
Dorothy had learned the bitterness of the woman's part, to stand by,
utterly lonely, and dream, and wait, while men achieve.

"Can I read it now?" she asked, timidly.

"You couldn't make it out, Dorothy. When it's all done, and every word is
just as I want it, I'll read it to you. That will be better, won't it?"

"Can Dick come, too?" She asked the question thoughtlessly, then flushed
as Harlan took her face between his hands.

"Dorothy, did you know Dick before we were married?"

"Why, Harlan! I never saw him in all my life till the day he came here.
Did you think I had?"

Harlan only grunted, but she understood, and, in return, asked her
question. "Did you write the book about Elaine?" she began, half ashamed.

"Dear little idiot," said Harlan, softly. "I'd begun the book before she
came or before I knew she was coming. I never saw her till she came to
live with us. You're foolish, dearest, don't you think you are?"

He was swiftly perceiving the necessity of creating a new harmony to take
the place of that old one, now so str