For half an hour Linda worked steadily, then she stacked her papers with a sigh, arose and drew a chair before the fire, whose charred logs were burning dully. She gave a poke to the smouldering ends, which sent up a spurt of sparks and caused the flame to burn brightly. With chin in hands, the girl sat for some time gazing into the fire which, after this final effort, was fast reducing itself to gray ashes and red embers. The old clock in the hall struck eleven slowly and solemnly. Miss Ri's quick tread on the floor above had ceased long before. The tick-tock of the clock and the crackle of the consuming wood were the only sounds. Linda returned to the table, picked up a bit of paper and began to write, at first rapidly, then with pauses for thought, frequent re-readings and many erasures. She occupied herself thus till the clock again struck deliberately but insistently. Linda lifted her head and counted. "Midnight," she exclaimed, "and I am still up. I wonder if it is worth it." She stopped to read once more the page she had finally written, then, tucking the paper into her blouse, she gathered up the rest, found a candle in one of the dignified old candlesticks, put out the lamp and tip-toed to her room. The sun was shining brightly on the river when she awakened next morning. Miss Ri had gone long before. Linda had been dimly conscious of her stirring about, but had slept on, realizing vaguely that it was early. Her first movement was to sit up in bed, abstract a paper from under her pillow, and read it over. "I wondered how it would sound by daylight," she said to herself. "I think it isn't so bad, and it was such a joy to do it after those stupid papers. I wonder, I wonder if it is worth while." She tucked the paper away in her desk, feeling more blithe and content than for many a day. How blue the river was, how picturesque the tall-masted ships, how good the tang of the autumn air, laden with the odor of leaf-wine. Even the turkey-buzzards, sailing over the chimney-tops, gave individuality to the scene. It was a beautiful world, even though she must be shut up in a school-room all day with a parcel of restless urchins. She went down-stairs humming a tune, to the delight of Phebe, who waited below. "Dat soun' lak ole times, honey chile," she said. "I ain't hyar dem little hummy tunes dis long while. I always use say to mahse'f, 'Dar come mah honey chile. I knows her by dat little song o' hers, same as I knows de bees by dere hummin' an' de robin by he whistle.' Come along, chile, fo' yo' breakfus spile." She bustled back to the kitchen, and Linda entered the dining-room, warm from the fire in the wood stove and cheery by reason of the scarlet flowers with which Phebe had adorned the table. There was an odor of freshly-baked bread, of bacon, of coffee. "I believe I'm hungry," said Linda.