"I think he distinctly intimates as much, where he refers to the Maker of the storm."
"True. Well, he expects an answer, and I will make it exactly as you wish."
Grace rubbed her drowsy eyes and instantly became alert. She looked inquiringly at her husband, and said:—
"Exactly as I wish? May I write it?"
"May you? What a question! Was there ever a time when your wish was not law to me?"
"Never—bless you!—but some laws are hard to bear."
"Not when you make them, sweetheart. Aren't we one? Write the answer."
Grace's eyes became by turns melting, luminous, dancing,—exactly as they had been of old, at the rare times when Philip would come home from the office with a pleasing surprise,—opera-tickets, perhaps, or the promise of an afternoon and night at the seashore, or a moonlight trip on the river. They reminded him of the delightful old times of which they seemed to promise a renewal, and his heart leaped with joy at the hope and belief that the answer Grace would write would break the chains that bound her and him to Claybanks. While Grace wrote, Philip closed his eyes and imagined himself and his wife spending a restful, delightful summer together, far from the heat, dust, shabbiness, and dilapidation of their part of the West. Certainly they would have earned it, and was not the laborer worthy of his hire?
He was aroused from his dreams by a bit of paper thrust into his hand. He opened his eyes and read:—