Margaret’s face grew suddenly thoughtful, but after a moment’s hesitation she said bravely:
“I believe there are times when only the truth should be spoken regardless of conventionality. For my own part, Mr. Lynn, I like you exceedingly, and should gladly welcome you to our little circle; but my little sister is young, beautiful as you know, imaginative, sensitive, and—well, is it not best under the circumstances, which you so well understand, that she should continue a cold reality to you?”
“No!” exclaimed Herbert emphatically, as he sprang to his feet and placed a hand on the back of Margaret’s chair. “I am no cowardly trifler, and I have an honest admiration for Elsie that has a right to crave its legitimate outlet. I ask only a fair field.”
Glancing up at the earnest, flushed face, Margaret smiled as she rose and laid her hand on his. “You shall have it,” she said. “Bring your violin and be your own propitiation. I never interfere in matters of this kind.”
Herbert raised Margaret’s hand to his lips, and murmuring something wholly unintelligible, he snatched his hat and left the room. Margaret sat long buried in thought after he had left her. Elsie’s doubts and misgivings in no way troubled her. Love in her eyes was too sacred and too rare to hamper it with the chains of caste or clothe it in false conventionality. But until now the thought of love and Elsie had not come to her except in the vague sometime that comes to all women. Elsie was so young, so inexperienced, yet, strange as it seemed, so wise. She had looked apprehensively upon the volatile nature, fearful that its buoyant wings would be sadly singed in the candle of life. Yet by Herbert’s own confession the little maid had been as wise in her demeanor as if whole generations of elder sisters had stood sponsor for every utterance. “I am glad,” she sighed tremulously, with that sweet enjoyment of love which all women have. “I could not be better pleased if the selection had been my own; but I mistrust that little sister of mine will lead him a wild dance before she surrenders, if she ever does. There are graver thoughts in that young head than I ever dreamed of. But all I can say is, God speed an honest love!”
An hour later Margaret was on the street, intent upon a purpose which had been gaining strength ever since the invalid, Mrs. Carson, had given her the poem she had read at her bedside. There seemed to Margaret to be too much merit in the poem to forego the effort to find for it, not only publication, but pay. Margaret had become strongly possessed of the primitive idea that the laborer is worthy of his hire, and that merit had the right to demand recognition. Her contact with life had so far been so simple and direct that the complexities governing man’s progress had only just begun to confront her. It was, therefore, with the bravery born of ignorance that she entered several editorial sanctums connected with the various leading papers and periodicals of the great city and offered the poem for inspection. The contemptuous glances, and decided snubs she received, disturbed her equanimity rather than her purpose; although if the matter had been a purely personal one, literary ambition would have met instant death in these encounters. But Margaret’s strength was always greater for others than for herself, and not until she had exhausted all avenues did she intend to turn back. Finally in the eleventh venture she encountered an editor who, listening to her story and becoming interested, volunteered the information that the poem had merit and was worthy of remuneration. A check for five dollars gladdened Margaret’s heart, and her smiles and expressions of gratitude must have made a bit of sunshine in the soul of a just man. Margaret hurried home, her face glowing with happiness, and hastening into the invalid’s room, produced the check with infinite satisfaction. There was no answer, but a pair of thin arms reached up and clasped Margaret’s neck, while sobs and tears contended for the mastery. Margaret waited until the storm had subsided and then said gently: “You will have a chance now to turn your talent to account.”
“What an angel you are! Sent by the God whom I doubted! How can I ever repay it all?”
“By reawakening a slumbering faith, getting well, and working cheerfully,” and with a kiss upon the invalid’s agitated lips, Margaret went up to her rooms.
CHAPTER XVII.
One evening, a week after Antoine’s departure for the hospital, Elsie sat at the organ, idly picking out the melody of several of his favorite airs and dreamily wishing the lad could be with them once again. Margaret was busied over her books, and Lizzette, who was with them for the night, was knitting the stocking that always grew but never seemed finished, and Gilbert was putting some decorative touches upon a small medicine cabinet. Suddenly Herbert Lynn appeared in the open doorway, his arms filled with books and a violin case in one hand.