"Neither my senses nor my cosy little hundred-a-month," said Jane. "Come along, people,--it's a scandalous hour." She started briskly up the silent thoroughfare and the others followed. "No, it's really all quite sane and simple." (The astounding thing was that she had known it less than five minutes herself, and now it was a solid and settled fact to her. Happily, gloriously, she didn't have to choose, after all. She didn't have to be either a Nannie Slade Hunter or a Sally Farraday; there was a chance to be something quite fresh and new.) "I'm going to _New York_ to write. I mean, to see if I can write." Martin Wetherby, heavily keeping step beside her, not even touching her arm at crossings, was silent, but her best friend was vocal and vehement. "Jane Vail! I never heard anything so--so far-fetched in all my life! Going to _New York_ to write! Can't you write here in your own town, in your own home? Of course you can. Why,--see what you've accomplished already." "I haven't accomplished anything, old dear, except a few papers for the Tuesday Club and the Ladies' Aid, and----" "You've had three stories accepted and published and one of them _paid for_,--I think you've had a _great deal_ of encouragement, don't you, Martin?" The stout young man made a husky assent. "But Sally, you don't realize the interruptions, the distractions----" "Interruptions! Distractions!" Sarah cut in hotly. "Why, your Aunt Lydia is perfectly wonderful about not letting you be disturbed! And anyhow--what about Harriet Beecher Stowe, writing _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ with poverty and sickness and a debilitating climate and seven children?" "My good woman," said Jane, cautiously, "it's entirely possible that I may not have exactly the same urge. I want to find out if I have any at all." She slipped an arm through Sarah's and through Martin's and gave each of them a gay little squeeze. "Don't be so horrified, old dears. It isn't across the world, you know, and I'll be coming home for all high-days and holidays. After I really get started I daresay I _can_ work at home,--and perhaps, you know, it will be Bo-Peep herself who comes home, bringing her tales behind her!" But Sarah Farraday was still protesting in a cross panic when they had taken leave of a subdued Martin and were creeping upstairs in Miss Lydia Vail's house. "Look!" said Jane, nodding at the transom over her aunt's door. "She's fallen asleep again without turning off her light. You go on, Sally, I'll be right in." Miss Lydia was propped up on two pillows, an open book before her on the patchwork quilt, and her head had sagged forward on the breast of her blue flannelette nightgown. She was making a low comedy sound which would have distressed her beyond measure if she had heard it. When Jane took the book from under her plump hands and gently removed one of the pillows she came back to consciousness with a jerk.