But it is only for one or two impressions. Fergus suddenly raises his hand.
"Stop her, stop her," he commands, and when she has calmed down, Fergus, comparing the imprint with the form, and armed with paste pot and paper, or with block and mallet, adds the final artistic touches.
Sometimes, sitting here in my study, if I am a little lonely, I have only to call up the picture I have of Fergus at the press, and I am restored and comforted by the thought that there are still pleasant and amusing things in this world.
So we printed off the famous issue containing the poetry of Hempfield—and folded and mailed the papers. Nort, working like a demon, was the soul of the office. He made the work that week seem more interesting and important; he made an adventure and a romance out of the common task of a country printing-office.
CHAPTER VIII
NORT AND ANTHY
It was on this night, after the last copy of the edition had been disposed of, that Nort walked home for the first time with Anthy. He carried it off perfectly. When she was ready to go—I remember just how she looked, her slight firm figure pausing with hand on the door, the flush of excitement and interest still in her face.