"Why not?"

"Why! Because it's the best paper in the country. It would never look at my things."

"It certainly won't if you never give it a chance. You had better try it," he went on, in a tone that carried a good deal of weight. "You know they can do no worse than return it; and I should think, myself, that the _Gay Head_ was quite as well worth expending postage-stamps on as any other paper. Mind; I don't say they'll take your things,--but it's worth trying for. By the way," he added as he rose to go; "I wouldn't send No. 5 if I were you; it's a chestnut."

He had picked up his hat and stood on his feet so unexpectedly that Madge was afraid he would escape her without a word of thanks.

"Oh, please wait just a minute," she begged. "I haven't told you a single word of how grateful I am. I feel somehow as if,--as if,--_the worst were over!_" This time Mr. Spriggs smiled broadly.

"And you will send Noah's Dove to the _Gay Head?_"

"Yes, I will, because you advise me to. But you mustn't think I'm conceited enough to expect him to roost there."

And that very evening the dove spread his wings,--only five of them now,--and set forth on the most ambitious flight he had yet ventured upon.

In the next few days Madge found her thoughts much occupied with speculations regarding her mysterious visitor; everything about him, his name, his errand, both the matter and the manner of his speech, roused and piqued her curiosity. It was clear that he knew a great deal about art. And yet, if he were an artist, she would certainly be familiar with his name. Whatever his calling, he was sure to be distinguished. Those judicial eyes would be severe with any work more pretentious than that of a mere student; that firm, discriminating hand,--she had been struck with the way he handled her sketches,--would never have signed a poor performance. Perhaps it was Elihu Vedder in disguise,--or Sargent, or Abbey! Since the descent of the fairy-G.o.dmother upon the cla.s.s a year ago, no miracle seemed impossible. And yet, the miracle which actually befell would have seemed, of all imaginable ones, the most incredible. It took place, too, in the simplest, most unpremeditated manner, as miracles have a way of doing.

One evening, about a week after the return of the miniature, the family were gathered together as usual about the argand burner. It was a warm evening, and Ned, who was to devote his energies to the cause of electrical science, when once he was delivered from the thraldom of the cla.s.sics, had made some disparaging remarks about the heat engendered by gas.

"By the way," said Mr. Burtwell, "that, reminds me! I have a letter for you, Madge. I met the postman just after I left the door this noon, and he handed me this with my gas bill. Who's your New York correspondent?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Madge, with entire sincerity, for it was far too early to look for any word from the _Gay Head_.

The letter had the appearance of a friendly note, being enclosed in a square envelope, undecorated with any business address. Madge opened it, and glanced at the signature, which was at the bottom of the first page. The blood rushed to her face as her eye fell upon the name: "Philip Spriggs, Art Editor of the _Gay Head_."

She read the letter very slowly, with a curious feeling that this was a dream, and she must be careful not to wake herself up. This was what she read:

"MY DEAR MISS BURTWELL,

"We like Noah's Dove as much as I thought we should. We shall hope to get him out some time next year. Can't you work up the pickpocket idea? That small boy, the second one from the right, is nucleus enough for another set. In fact, it is the small-boy element in your Student that makes him original--and true to life. We think that you have the knack, and count upon you for better work yet. We take pleasure in handing you herewith a check for this.

"Yours truly, "PHILIP SPRIGGS."

The check was a very plain one on thin yellow paper, not in the least what she had looked for from a great publishing-house; but the amount inscribed in the upper left-hand corner of the modest slip of paper seemed to her worthy the proudest traditions of the _Gay Head_ itself.

The check was for sixty dollars.

As Madge gradually a.s.sured herself that she was awake, the first sensation that took shape in her mind was the very ridiculous one of regret that the mahogany table should have been deprived of its legitimate share in this great event. And then she remembered that it was her father himself who had handed her the letter.

She was still wondering how she should break the news to him, when she found herself giving an odd little laugh, and asking, "Father, what is your favourite line of ocean steamers?"

Mr. Burtwell, who had really felt no special curiosity as to his daughter's correspondent, was once more immersed in his evening paper.

He looked up, at her words, as all the family did, and was struck by the expression of her face.

"What makes you ask that?" he demanded sharply.

"Because I know you always keep your promises, and--there's a letter you might like to read."

Mr. Burtwell took the letter, frowning darkly, a habit of his when he was puzzled or anxious. He read the letter through twice, and then he examined the check. He did not speak at once. There was something so portentous in this deliberation, and something so very like emotion in his kind, sensible face, that even Ned was awed into respectful silence.

At last Mr. Burtwell turned his eyes to his daughter's face, where everything, even suspense itself, seemed arrested, and said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

"I think you had better go by the North German Lloyd. Shall you start this week?"

"Oh, you darling!" cried Madge, throwing her arms about her father's neck, regardless of letter and check, which, being still in his hands, were called upon to bear the brunt of this attack; "How can I ever make up my mind to leave you?"

THE IDEAS OF POLLY

CHAPTER I

DAN'S PLIGHT

"_Well_, Mis' Lapham, I _am_ sorry to hear it, I _must_ say! It _doos_ seem's though you'd _had_ your share of affliction!"

Mrs. Henry Dodge always emphasised a great many of her words, which habit gave to her remarks an impression of peculiar sincerity and warmth; a perfectly correct impression, too, it must be admitted. Her needle, moreover, being quite as energetic as her tongue, she was a valuable member of the sewing-circle, at which function she was now a.s.sisting with much spirit.

Mrs. Lapham accepted this tribute to her many trials with becoming modesty. She was a dull, colourless woman whose sole distinction lay in the visitations of affliction, and it is not too much to affirm that she was proud of them. She was sewing, not too rapidly, on a very long seam, which occupation was typical of her course of life. She sighed heavily in response to her neighbour's words of sympathy, and said:

"It did seem hard that it should have been Dan, just as he was beginning to be a help to his uncle, and all. But I s'pose we'd ought to have been prepared for it."

"There's been quite a pause in the death-roll," the Widow Criswell observed. She was engaged in sewing a b.u.t.ton on a boy's jacket with a black thread.

"How long is it since Eliza went?" asked Miss Louisa Bailey, pursuing the widow's train of thought.

"Seven years this month. She began to cough at Christmas, and by Washington's Birthday she was in her grave."

"And Jane? They didn't go very far apart, did they?"

"No, Jane died eleven months before Eliza; and their mother went three years before that, and their father when Dan was a baby; that's goin'

on sixteen years."

"_Well_, you _have_ had a hard time, I _will_ say!" exclaimed Mrs.

Dodge. "Your Martha losing her little girl, and John's wife breaking her collar-bone, and all, and now _this_ to be gone through with! I _should_ think you'd feel _discouraged_!"

"I do; real discouraged. But I s'pose it's no more than I'd ought to expect, with such an inheritance."

"Have there been many cases of lung-trouble on your side of the family, Mrs. Lapham?" Miss Bailey inquired with respectful interest.

"No; Sister Fitch was the first case."

For a few seconds, conversation languished, and only the snip of Mrs.