?" Mrs. Caldwell had inquired again and again
in that heart-searching hour which had preceded her sanction of the
engagement. "Are you _sure_?"

And Sheila had been sure, triumphantly sure. Even then, with the
girl's rhapsodies ringing in her ears, Mrs. Caldwell had insisted upon
an engagement of six months--"To give the child an opportunity to break
it," she had confided to Peter. But the delay had proved unnecessary.
At the end of the period imposed Sheila had been as sure as ever, and
she was sure still. Ted loved her. Ted needed her. Of course he was
the right man for her!

If she had thought to receive more than marriage had given her, the
fault was hers, she loyally decided. She had always anticipated
miracles. She had always seen life as an enchanting fairy tale, with a
marvellous climax hidden somewhere in the chapters yet unread. But
life wasn't a fairy tale; it was merely a bit of cheerful realism, with
a happy, commonplace climax in accord with realistic standards. It
hadn't been fair to demand princes and palaces and winged delights of a
bit of realism! She knew now that her expectations had been childish
and absurd; that she had asked for more than life had to give; that the
joys of this world were simple, home-abiding things, without the wings
for heavenly flights. Not even love itself was winged, and it was
better so--for thus she need not fear lest it fly away as winged things
are wont to do. She had prayed for ecstasy--which, at best, is
fleeting. Instead she had been granted a safe and quiet happiness.
Was not destiny wiser than she?

But though she reconciled herself to the realities of life and of
marriage, she could not reconcile herself to her own unchanged spirit.
She had looked to find Sheila Kent a new being, serene, complete--and
Sheila Kent was neither.

"I'm just myself!" she admitted at last, when neither faith nor desire
had availed to transform the fiber of her soul. "I'm just myself
still. Ted used to think me a queer little girl--and I'm the same
queer self now. Other married girls are satisfied with their husbands
and their houses and--their babies--and I believed I would be, too.
But I'm not. Marriage hasn't made me over--and it isn't enough for me.
I want something wonderful--I want to _do_ something wonderful. I
want--why, I want to _write_!"

It seemed a solution of her perplexity--the conclusion that she still
wanted to write--and she seized upon it with r