For the flash of an instant something twinged at the cold heart of the secretary. The bright beauty of Pauline, her happiness, her love for her foster brother, struck home the first realization of something missing—and never to be achieved—in his grim existence. Perhaps for the moment Raymond Owen had a dim understanding of the value of innocence.
The next afternoon Pauline stood on the veranda bidding Harry goodbye.
"I hate to go, Polly, but I must," he said. "I hate to leave you with that—secretary."
"Harry, please don't start again on that. You know I don't agree with you, and—and I don't want to quarrel with you when you're going away."
"Very well," he said, embracing her, "but don't get into any of your scrapes while I am away. Remember, it's a long way to Chicago."
"And Tipperary," she laughed. "Goodbye, darling boy, and run home the minute you can."
"I will. Goodbye."
Pauline had turned dejectedly back toward the house when the sound of steps on the walk drew her attention. It was the postman.
"I'll take them," she said, extending her hand.
She ran over the envelopes swiftly until she came to one which bore the corner mark of a publishing concern in Philadelphia. She had never heard of the firm of Carson & Brown, but, to her enthusiasm of young authorship, the very name "publisher" was magical. She opened the letter hastily and read.