"It could be done!" said Nort. "It could be done right here in Hempfield. Brains and energy will count anywhere, Miss Doane. Why, we could make the Hempfield _Star_ one of the most quoted journals in America--or in the world!" They stood silent for a moment there at the gate. Nort was not looking at Anthy, or thought he was not, but long afterward he had only to close his eyes, and the whole scene came back to him: the dim old house rising among its trees, the wide sky and the stars overhead, and the slight figure of Anthy there in the gateway. And the very odour and feel of the night---- Anthy was turning to walk up the pathway. "One week more," said Nort. "One week more," responded Anthy. Now there is nothing either mystical or poetical about any one of these three words-one--week--more--or about all of them together, and yet Nort once repeated them for me as though they had some peculiar or esoteric significance. They merely meant that there was another week before Ed Smith returned. A week is enough for youth! [Illustration] CHAPTER IX A LETTER TO LINCOLN Reaching this point in my narrative I lean back in my chair--the coals are dying down in the fireplace, Harriet long ago went to bed, and the house is silent with a silence that one can hear--I lean back and think again of that moment in Anthy's life. I have before me an open letter, a letter so often opened and so often folded again that the creases are worn thin. I keep it in the drawer of my desk with a packet labelled, "Archives of the _Star_." There are several of the old Captain's editorials, including the one entitled "Fudge," and of course the one about Roosevelt, a number of Nort's early manuscripts, Fergus's version of Mark Twain, and five letters in Anthy's firm handwriting. This is a very curious document, this letter I have before me. The outside of the envelope bears the name of Abraham Lincoln, and the letter itself begins: "Dear Mr. Lincoln." It is in Anthy's hand. Ever since I began writing this narrative I have been impatient to reach this moment, but now that I am here, I hesitate. It is no common matter to put down the secret imaginings of a woman's soul.