And soon the other two were as delightfully absorbed. The bright light of the fire shone upon three motionless and rapt figures, and getting no greeting from them, went off and danced on the old cupboard doors and paper-hangings, in a kindly hearty joviality, that would have put any number of stately wax candles out of countenance. There was no poverty in the room that night. But the people were too busy to know how cosy they were, till Fleda was ready to look up from her note, and Hugh had gone twice carefully over the new poem when there was a sudden giving out of the pine splinters. New ones were supplied in eager haste and silence, and Hugh was beginning "The Wind's Voices," for the third time, when a soft-whispered "Hugh!" across the fire, made him look over to Fleda's corner. She was holding up, with both hands, a five- dollar bank note, and just showing him her eyes over it.
"What's that?" said Hugh, in an energetic whisper.
"I don't know!" said Fleda, shaking her head comically; "I am told 'The Wind's Voices' have blown it here, but, privately, I am afraid it is a windfall of another kind."
"What?" said Hugh, laughing.
"Uncle Orrin says it is the first-fruits of what I sent to the Excelsior, and that more will come; but I do not feel at all sure that it is entirely the growth of that soil."
"I dare say it is," said Hugh; "I am sure it is worth more than that. Dear Fleda, I like it so much!"
Fleda gave him such a smile of grateful affection not at all as if she deserved his praise, but as if it was very pleasant to have.
"What put it into your head? anything in particular?"
"No nothing I was looking out of the window one day, and seeing the willow-tree blow; and that looked over my shoulder; as you know Hans Andersen says his stories did."
"It is just like you! exactly as it can be."