My husband, entering quietly without my hearing him, leaned over my shoulder, as I was writing those last words, and took my pen from my fingers.
"Not yet, Marcia; you have n't gained your strength."
I seized a pencil, and while I try to finish now, scribbling, he is holding the end of it, ready to lift it from the paper.
"Please, Gordon—just a few more words—only a few about the new farm project, and Delia, and the Doctor and Mrs. Macleod,"—I hear him laugh under his breath when I couple those two names; we are still hoping in that direction,—"and those dear Duchênes—and you, of course—"
The pencil is being lifted—I struggle to write—
"Oh, Gordon, you tyrant!"
BOOKS BY
MARY E. WALLER
THE WOOD-CARVER OF 'LYMPUS
A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH
THE LITTLE CITIZEN
SANNA OF THE ISLAND TOWN
A YEAR OUT OF LIFE
FLAMSTED QUARRIES
A CRY IN THE WILDERNESS
MY RAGPICKER
THROUGH THE GATES OF THE NETHERLANDS
OUR BENNY