“Oh!” cried Witherby. “I didn't know you were married! That's good! There's nothing like marriage, Mr. Hubbard, to keep a man going in the right direction. But you've begun pretty young.” “Nothing like taking a thing in time,” answered Bartley. “But I haven't been married a great while; and I'm not so young as I look. Well, good afternoon, Mr. Witherby.” “_What_ did you say was your address?” asked Witherby, taking out his note-book. “My wife will certainly call. She's down at Nantasket now, but she'll be up the first part of September, and then she'll call. _Good_ afternoon.” They shook hands at last, and Bartley ran home to Marcia. He burst into the room with a glowing face. “Well, Marcia,” he shouted, “I've got my basis!” “Hush! No! Don't be so loud! You haven't!” she answered, springing to her feet. “I don't believe it! How hot you are!” “I've been running--almost all the way from the Events office. I've got a place on the Events,--assistant managing-editor,--thirty dollars a week,” he panted. “I knew you would succeed yet,--I knew you would, if I could only have a little patience. I've been scolding myself ever since you went. I thought you were going to do something desperate, and I had driven you to it. But Bartley, Bartley! It can't be true, is it? Here, here! Do take this fan. Or no, I'll fan you, if you'll let me sit on your knee! O poor thing, how hot you are! But I thought you wouldn't white for the Events; I thought you hated that old Witherby, who acted so ugly to you when you first came.” “Oh, Witherby is a pretty good old fellow,” said Bartley, who had begun to get his breath again. He gave her a full history of the affair, and they rejoiced together over it, and were as happy as if Bartley had been celebrating a high and honorable good fortune. She was too ignorant to feel the disgrace, if there were any, in the compact which Bartley had closed, and he had no principles, no traditions, by which to perceive it. To them it meant unlimited prosperity; it meant provision for the future, which was to bring a new responsibility and a new care. “We will take the parlor with the alcove, now,” said Bartley. “Don't excite yourself,” he added, with tender warning. “No, no,” she said, pillowing her head on his shoulder, and shedding peaceful tears. “It doesn't seem as if we should ever quarrel again, does it?” “No, no! We never shall,” she murmured. “It has always come from my worrying you about the law, and I shall never do that any more. If you like journalism better, I shall not urge you any more to leave it, now you've got your basis.” “But I'm going on with the law, now, for that very reason. I shall read law all my leisure time. I feel independent, and I shall not be anxious about the time I give, because I shall know that I can afford it.” “Well, only you mustn't overdo.” She put her lips against his cheek. “You're more to me than anything you can do for me.” “Oh, Marcia!” XIX.