"Marry them off and let them live happily ever afterward," Quincy concluded.
"I don't think I could ever write a book with a sorrowful conclusion," mused Alice.
Quincy saw the opportunity for which he had long waited.
"Why don't you write a book?" asked he earnestly. "My friend Leopold says you ought to; he further said that you were a genius, and if I remember him correctly, compared you to a diamond—"
"In the rough," added Alice quickly.
"That's it," said Quincy; "but Leopold added that rough diamonds should be dug up, cut, and set in a manner worthy of their value."
"I am afraid Mr. Ernst greatly overrates my abilities and my worth," said she, a little constrainedly. "But how unkind and ungrateful I am to you and Mr. Ernst, who have been so kind and have done so much for me. I will promise this much," she continued graciously. "I will think it over, and if my heart does not fail me, I will try."
"I hope your conclusion will be favorable," remarked Quincy. "In a short time you will be financially independent and freed from any necessity of returning to your former vocation. I never knew of an author so completely successful at the start, and I think you have every encouragement to make literature your 'love of a lifetime.'"
"I will try to think so too," replied Alice softly.
Then he took up the book and finished reading it. When he had closed, neither he nor she were thinking of that future world in which Herbert and Clarice had sealed those vows which they had kept so steadfastly and truly during life, but of the present world, bright with promise for each of them, in which there was but one shade of sorrow—that filmy web that shut out the beauties of nature from the sight of that most beautiful of God's creations, a lovely woman.