good stead, and during her morning hours she actually forgot that her
chance was being cast in a publishing house, on the Avenue, by a group
of men she had never seen. Sometimes she despaired, other times she had
full confidence. But if it came to pass that she should find a publisher
and an audience--that she should be permitted to make, as her
contribution, these transcriptions of life which joyed her so in the
doing--could she ask one thing more of the gods?

The envelope with the imprint of the arbiters of her fate was brought
her by Anna one afternoon as she sat in the nursery! Jerry was out and
the house very still. She held the letter in her hand--her heart beating
so that she could scarcely breathe. It seemed as if all those years of
patient labour stood before her in a row, asking her to read their
sentence, yet she did not break the seal.

"Baby boy," she said unsteadily to her son, "shall you care whether your
mother is a woman of letters? Will you love her as well as 'just
mother'?"

He smiled his ready smile at her. She made him happy; he was ready to
admit that. With an unsteady hand she opened the letter and forced
herself to read:

"My dear Mrs. Paxton:

"We have taken rather more time than usual for the
consideration of your book since it is a first book of a new
author. We were so anxious that the fact that Martin
Christiansen had brought you to us should not influence our
judgment, that we subjected your work to a most rigorous
examination.

"We are happy to say that we think you have written a book
of rare distinction, of clear thinking and sure character
building. It will give us great pleasure to publish it in
the list of our spring books. We do not hope that it will be
a 'best seller,' Mrs. Paxton, because in this country,
artistic distinction, alas, is not an easily marketed
commodity; but we consider it a privilege to have our
imprint on a book of this quality.

"Will you come in at your convenience to sign the contract?

"Most sincerely yours, etc."

Jane laid her head against the foot of her son's bed, so deeply moved
that she could not stir. Her joy was so great that it flooded her with a
sense of consecration to a higher task. It was a fine devotional moment,
to be put beside the other great moment of her life, when her son was
laid in her arms.

She thought of Jerry, then; what it would mean to