e first time, her sweet lips close
on his. "My Prince, Oh, my Prince," she murmured, when at length he set
her free; "my eyes did not see but my heart knew!"_

_So ended the Quest of the Lady Elaine._

The last page of the manuscript fluttered, face downward, upon the table,
and Dorothy wiped her eyes. Elaine's mouth was parched, but she staggered
to her feet, knowing that she must say some conventional words of
congratulation to Harlan, then go to her own room.

Blindly, she put out her hand, trying to speak; then, for a single
illuminating instant, her eyes looked into Dick's.

With a little cry, Elaine fled from the room, overwhelmed with shame. In a
twinkling, she was out of the house, and flying toward the orchard as fast
as her light feet would carry her, her heart beating wildly in her
breast.

By the sure instinct of a lover, Dick knew that his hour had come. He
dropped out of the window and overtook her just as she reached her little
rocking-chair, which, damp with the Autumn dew, was still under the apple
tree.

"Elaine!" cried Dick, crushing her into his arms, all the joy of youth and
love in his voice. "Elaine! My Elaine!"

"The audience," remarked Harlan, in an unnatural tone, "appears to have
gone. Only my faithful wife stands by me."

"Oh, Harlan," answered Dorothy, with a swift rush of feeling, "you'll
never know till your dying day how proud and happy I am. It's the very
beautifullest book that anybody ever wrote, and I'm so glad! Mrs.
Shakespeare could never have been half as pleased as I am! I----," but the
rest was lost, for Dorothy was in his arms, crying her heart out for sheer
joy.

"There, there," said Harlan, patting her shoulders awkwardly, and rubbing
his rough cheek against her tear-wet face; "it wasn't meant to make
anybody cry."

"Why can't I cry if I want to?" demanded Dorothy, resentfully, between
sobs. Harlan's voice was far from even and his own eyes were misty as he
answered: "Because you are my own darling girl and I love you, that's
why."

They sat hand in hand for a long time, looking into the embers of the
dying fire, in the depths of that wedded silence which has no need of
words. The portraits of Uncle Ebeneezer and Aunt Rebecca seemed fully in
accord, and, though mute, eloquent with understanding.

"He'd be so proud," whispered Dorothy, looking up at the stern face over
the mantel, "if he knew what you had done here in his house. He loved
books, and now, because