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 always expecting to find pearls. Even Celia was still in
the country, and Philip's hours spared from drudgery were given to the