"Emily and I have accomplished a tremendous amount this week," she said by way of preface to her important announcement. "We're getting ahead finely." "Ah, that's good," he said. "But remember not to overshoot the mark, Rachel; there'd be no wisdom in that. And now to prove that I've not been idle while you've been slaving with your pretty fingers, I have brought this. You know I told you that before long I hoped to be able to complete the work." She did not at once comprehend to what he referred, but she saw that he wished to tell her something flattering to himself, and by means of questions she led him on. With a smile, he drew the book from its wrappings. Her needle-work slipped to the floor and she received the volume in both hands. "Oh, Simon!" "Do you like it?" "How handsome it is! And how fine these coloured plates are! Oh what it must mean to you to see this work at last in definite shape." For she suddenly appreciated all the joy that lay for him, the author, between those stiff new pages. The last vestige of her ill nature vanished and she looked up at him eagerly. "And the indications are that it is going to be well received," he told her, with an air of satisfaction. "I've seen some of the advance notices. They could scarcely be more complimentary." Like most women Rachel adored in a man power to achieve distinction. She counted it an additional proof of strength. She had been drawn to Emil partly because of his genius which had compelled her to look up. But thus far, though she appreciated his essential worth, she had not been successful in encouraging her imagination to dwell on Simon and invest him with uncommon attributes. A little shiver of excitement ran through her. The consciousness of shining had called forth a look on Simon's face. "The _Courier_ says it's a work which is bound to attract attention, relating as it does all the old legends connected with gems, besides giving solid facts of their history." She had no reason for thinking the book was not what he believed it to be, a work of merit, possibly of unique value. She nodded, so anxious to see him burnished, that she saw him burnished. "Even the reviewer of the _Messenger_, usually cynical, speaks well of it." "I am very, very glad." Her voice thrilled with gratification. "I knew you would be," he returned feelingly. "This copy is for you." She put out her hand. He grasped it, folding it against his cheek. "You know how you can best thank me, don't you?" he said. He was not a lover to be inconsiderately treated by any woman. At the moment he was singularly handsome. With her free hand she turned the pages of the book. An involuntary sigh lifted her breast. "Can't you tell me to-night, Rachel?" he urged. "I've waited so long to know?"