“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.” 122
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-godmother upon the class a year ago, no miracle seemed impossible. And yet, the miracle which actually befell would have seemed, 123 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 classics, 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.