And indeed, the Star did reward the efforts of both its new editor and his silent partner. It made a triumphant debut, and it continued daily to fulfill the expectations which that debut had aroused.
Toward the end of the summer, Ted at last drew a breath of complete security. He was on Mrs. Caldwell's veranda at the time, and he and Sheila were alone together. It was just such a night as the first one of his return to Shadyville; the moonlight poured prodigally downward upon them, showing to each the other's face, silver-clear; the scent of the climbing roses stole to them on the light wind; from kitchenward came the soft notes of black Mandy's song as she finished her evening tasks—"Weep no mo', my lady!"
Everything was as it had been on that first night two months before—and yet everything was different. Within those two months Ted had proved himself as a man—a man who could do his chosen work. And Sheila—Ah, what had she not taught him—what had she not taught herself—of the woman's part in a man's work—a man's life? The same? No, everything was different!
Ted was sitting at Sheila's feet, in what had become his accustomed place. He glanced up at her, sweet and serene in the moonlight, and something rose within him as resistlessly as a mighty tide.
"I'm winning!" he said triumphantly, "I'm winning! But I couldn't have done it without you. Oh, Sheila, you've been the making of me! What a girl you are!—what a woman! You'd always back a man up in his undertakings—if you loved him—wouldn't you?"
"Oh—if I loved him!—" And she looked past him with dreamy eyes. She had never looked like that before, though love had been named to her by others and in more persuasive language. To back up a man in his undertakings—because she loved him— Why, that would be life!
Ted had never had the superfine discernment of natures more delicately wrought than his, but he had the discernment of sex—as all young and healthy creatures have. He saw her dreaming look, and he knew something of the kindred thought.
"Sheila"—and his voice was less sure and bold—"Sheila, have you ever been in love? Is there—anybody else?"
"No," she answered simply. And she drew her gaze down from the stars to his upturned face. That which was in her eyes made him catch his breath and close his own for an instant; but she was unaware of the shining thing he had seen—the soul, not only of one woman, just awakening, but of all womanhood, at once innocent and passionate, brave and piteous. He had not needed any subtlety to perceive that—so frank and beautiful was its betrayal.
"Sheila"—and he fixed his eyes upon her now—"Sheila, maybe the town does need me—as you said when I first came back. I'll do my best to make it need me. Because—because I want to earn the right to a home. I want to be able to—marry!"