The letter had the appearance of a friendly note, being enclosed in a square 124 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 assured 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.