"How many you find, Allyn! I never see any," she said, taking the handful of green leaves.
"Put them in your belt, and the first man you shake hands with, you'll marry," Phebe suggested pertly.
"Not I. I'm doomed to old-maidhood," she said, laughing.
"Give them to Hope, then," Phebe said, careless of Hope's blushes.
"Never. They are mine. You gave them to me, didn't you, Allyn?"
"Yes," the child said gravely. "You'd better keep them and put them in your belt. Hope doesn't need them as much as you do."
In the midst of the laugh that followed, Theodora went away to her room to write the momentous letter which should accept the publisher's offer. It cost her some pains to write it, to attain the proper degree of indifference, equally removed from coldness and from childish eagerness. The clock beside her told that an hour had passed over her task, and a little heap of torn papers lay on the desk before her when the maid came to call her.
"There's some one in the parlor to see you, Miss Theodora."
"Who?"