“Let’s go back to the big town, Dawn, old girl,” he would say. “We’re buried alive in this overgrown Dutch village. I came here in the first place on your account. Now it’s up to you to get me out of it. Think of what New York means! Think of what I’ve been! And I can write as well as ever.” But I always shook my head. “We would not last a month in New York, Peter. New York has hurried on and left us behind. We’re just two pieces of discard. We’ll have to be content where we are.” “Content! In this silly hole! You must be mad!” Then, with one of his unaccountable changes of tone and topic, “Dawn, let me have some money. I’m strapped. If I had the time I’d get out some magazine stuff. Anything to get a little extra coin. Tell me, how does that little sport you call Blackie happen to have so much ready cash? I’ve never yet struck him for a loan that he hasn’t obliged me. I think he’s sweet on you, perhaps, and thinks he’s doing you a sort of second-hand favor.” At times such as these all the old spirit that I had thought dead within me would rise up in revolt against this creature who was taking from me my pride, my sense of honor, my friends. I never saw Von Gerhard now. Peter had refused outright to go to him for treatment, saying that he wasn’t going to be poisoned by any cursed doctor, particularly not by one who had wanted to run away with his wife before his very eyes. Sometimes I wondered how long this could go on. I thought of the old days with the Nirlangers; of Alma Pflugel’s rose-encircled cottage; of Bennie; of the Knapfs; of the good-natured, uncouth aborigines, and their many kindnesses. I saw these dear people rarely now. Frau Nirlanger’s resignation to her unhappiness only made me rebel more keenly against my own. If only Peter could become well and strong again, I told myself, bitterly. If it were not for those blue shadows under his eyes, and the shrunken muscles, and the withered skin, I could leave him to live his life as he saw fit. But he was as dependent as a child, and as capricious. What was the end to be? I asked myself. Where was it all leading me? And then, in a fearful and wonderful manner, my question was answered. There came to my desk one day an envelope bearing the letter-head of the publishing house to which I had sent my story. I balanced it for a moment in my fingers, woman-fashion, wondering, hoping, surmising. “Of course they can’t want it,” I told myself, in preparation for any disappointment that was in store for me. “They’re sending it back. This is the letter that will tell me so.” And then I opened it. The words jumped out at me from the typewritten page. I crushed the paper in my hands, and rushed into Blackie’s little office as I had been used to doing in the old days. He was at his desk, pipe in mouth. I shook his shoulder and flourished the letter wildly, and did a crazy little dance about his chair.