_So ended the Quest of the Lady Elaine._ The last page of the manuscript fluttered, face downward, upon the table, and Dorothy wiped her eyes. Elaine's mouth was parched, but she staggered to her feet, knowing that she must say some conventional words of congratulation to Harlan, then go to her own room. Blindly, she put out her hand, trying to speak; then, for a single illuminating instant, her eyes looked into Dick's. With a little cry, Elaine fled from the room, overwhelmed with shame. In a twinkling, she was out of the house, and flying toward the orchard as fast as her light feet would carry her, her heart beating wildly in her breast. By the sure instinct of a lover, Dick knew that his hour had come. He dropped out of the window and overtook her just as she reached her little rocking-chair, which, damp with the Autumn dew, was still under the apple tree. "Elaine!" cried Dick, crushing her into his arms, all the joy of youth and love in his voice. "Elaine! My Elaine!" "The audience," remarked Harlan, in an unnatural tone, "appears to have gone. Only my faithful wife stands by me." "Oh, Harlan," answered Dorothy, with a swift rush of feeling, "you'll never know till your dying day how proud and happy I am. It's the very beautifullest book that anybody ever wrote, and I'm so glad! Mrs. Shakespeare could never have been half as pleased as I am! I----," but the rest was lost, for Dorothy was in his arms, crying her heart out for sheer joy. "There, there," said Harlan, patting her shoulders awkwardly, and rubbing his rough cheek against her tear-wet face; "it wasn't meant to make anybody cry." "Why can't I cry if I want to?" demanded Dorothy, resentfully, between sobs. Harlan's voice was far from even and his own eyes were misty as he answered: "Because you are my own darling girl and I love you, that's why." They sat hand in hand for a long time, looking into the embers of the dying fire, in the depths of that wedded silence which has no need of words. The portraits of Uncle Ebeneezer and Aunt Rebecca seemed fully in accord, and, though mute, eloquent with understanding. "He'd be so proud," whispered Dorothy, looking up at the stern face over the mantel, "if he knew what you had done here in his house. He loved books, and now, because of his kindness, you can always write them. You'll never have to go back on the paper again." Harlan smiled reminiscently, for the hurrying, ceaseless grind of the newspaper office was, indeed, a thing of the past. The dim, quiet room was his, not the battle-ground of the street. Still, as he knew, the smell of printer's ink in his nostrils would be like the sound of a bugle to an old cavalry horse, and even now, he would not quite trust himself to walk down Newspaper Row. "I love Uncle Ebeneezer and Aunt Rebecca," went on Dorothy, happily. "I love everybody. I've love enough to-night to spare some for the whole world." "Dear little saint," said Harlan, softly, "I believe you have."