If the exterior had pleased her, she went from room to room inside with growing amazement. Fyfe had finished it from basement to attic without a word to her that he had any such undertaking in hand. Yet there was scarcely a room in which she could not find the visible result of some expressed wish or desire. Often during the winter they had talked over the matter of furnishings, and she recalled how unconsciously she had been led to make suggestions which he had stored up and acted upon. For the rest she found her husband's taste beyond criticism. There were drapes and rugs and prints and odds and ends that any woman might be proud to have in her home. "You're an amazing sort of a man, Jack," she said thoughtfully. "Is there anything you're not up to? Even a Chinese servant in the kitchen. It's perfect." "I'm glad you like it," he said. "I hoped you would." "Who wouldn't?" she cried impulsively. "I love pretty things. Wait till I get done rearranging." They introduced themselves to the immobile-featured Celestial when they had jointly and severally inspected the house from top to bottom. Sam Foo gazed at them, listened to their account of themselves, and disappeared. He re-entered the room presently, bearing a package. "Mist' Chol' Bentlee him leave foh yo'." Stella looked at it. On the outer wrapping was written: _From C.A. Benton to Mrs. John Henderson Fyfe_ _A Belated Wedding Gift_ She cut the string, and delved into the cardboard box, and gasped. Out of a swathing of tissue paper her hands bared sundry small articles. A little cap and jacket of knitted silk--its double in fine, fleecy yarn--a long silk coat--a bonnet to match,--both daintily embroidered. Other things--a shoal of them--baby things. A grin struggled for lodgment on Fyfe's freckled countenance. His blue eyes twinkled. "I suppose," he growled, "that's Charlie's idea of a joke, huh?" Stella turned away from the tiny garments, one little, hood crumpled tight in her hand. She laid her hot face against his breast and her shoulders quivered. She was crying. "Stella, Stella, what's the matter?" he whispered. "It's no joke," she sobbed. "It's a--it's a reality." CHAPTER XIII IN WHICH EVENTS MARK TIME From that day on Stella found in her hands the reins over a smooth, frictionless, well-ordered existence. Sam Foo proved himself such a domestic treasure as only the trained Oriental can be. When the labor of an eight-room dwelling proved a little too much for him, he urbanely said so. Thereupon, at Fyfe's suggestion, he imported a fellow countryman, another bland, silent-footed model of efficiency in personal service. Thereafter Stella's task of supervision proved a sinecure.