aker of
successes and destroyer of many hopes, was throbbing fast. My watch
showed but ten o'clock when I reached my caravanserai, but I climbed up
the last steps, carefully, anxious to avoid making any disturbance that
might awaken Frances and her little one.

To my surprise I found that her door was still open. She was holding my
book, closed, upon her lap, and as she lifted her head I saw her
wonderful eyes gazing at me, swimmingly, and she rose with hand
outstretched.

"Come in for a moment, David. Yes, leave the door open. Baby Paul is
sleeping soundly and will not awaken. Take a chair and let me talk to
you about that book. But--but before I speak of it, I want to have a
long, long look at you. Yes, it is the same dear old David--you haven't
changed a bit. And yet, Dave, you are a great big man. I never knew how
big, until I read this volume. I have been at it ever since you left!"

"My dear child, it is all fiction and, I am afraid, not very good.
Jamieson doesn't think very much of it."

"It makes no difference what he thinks. I know that I haven't been able
to keep my eyes away from it since Frieda brought it in. Oh! David,
where did you ever find such things to say; how did you ever discover
and reveal such depths of feeling, such wonderful truth in the beats of
struggling hearts. You should be so proud of yourself, so glad that this
book of yours will bring comfort and hope to many. It has made me feel
like a new woman, one who has received a message of cheer and gladness.
Thank you, David, for those words written on the fly-leaf, and thank you
still more for the strength and the courage those pages have brought
me!"

I looked at her, rather stupidly, until I reflected that she had read
the volume through the distorting glasses of her friendliness to me, of
the interest she takes in my work.

"My dear," I told her, "I am happy indeed that you have been able to
gather a little wheat from the chaff of the 'Land o' Love.' You have
hypnotized yourself a little into thinking that whatever comes from your
friend Dave must be very good. For your sake, as well as mine, and
especially for the good of Baby Paul, I wish indeed that your impression
may be shared by others."

"I know it will be! It can't help appealing to ever so many. It is
perfectly wonderful. I like your other books, ever so much, but this one
is different."

"That's the trouble," I informed her.

She shook her head, as if in despair at my