He leant back, still staring into the fire. There was silence for a minute; a log fell with a crash and a flight of sparks--Farraday replaced it. “Well, Mrs. Byrd,” he went on, “all this time the little ghost-house stood empty. No one used it but myself. It was made for a woman and for children, yet in my selfishness I locked its door against those who should rightfully have enjoyed it. Mac urged me to use it as a holiday house for poor mothers from the city, but, somehow, I could not bring myself to evict its dream-mistress.” “Oh, I feel more than ever a trespasser!” exclaimed Mary. He shook his head. “No, you have redeemed the place from futility--you are its justification.” He paused again, and continued in a lower tone, “Mrs. Byrd, you won't mind my saying this--you are so like that lady of long ago that the house seems yours by natural right. I think I was only waiting for someone who would love and understand it--some golden-haired young mother, like yourself, to give the key to. I can't tell you how happy it makes me that the little house should at last fulfil itself. Please keep it for as long as you need it--it will always need you.” Mary was much moved: “I can't thank you, Mr. Farraday, but I feel deeply honored. Perhaps my best thanks lie just in loving the house, and I do that, with all my heart. You don't mind my foolish little name for it?” “The Byrdsnest? I think it perfect.” “And you don't mind either the alterations I have made?” “My dear friend, while you keep this house I want it to be yours. Should you wish to take a long lease, and enlarge it, I shall be happy. In fact, I will sell it to you, if in the future you would care to buy. My only stipulation would be an option to repurchase should you decide to give it up.” He took her hand. “The Byrdsnest belongs to Elliston's mother; let us both understand that.” Her lips trembled. “You are good to me.” “No, it is you who are good to the dreams of a sentimentalist. And now--” he sat back smilingly--“that is settled. Tell me the news. How is my godson, how is Mr. Byrd, how fares the sable Lily?” “Baby weighs fourteen and a half pounds,” she said proudly; “he is simply perfect. Lily is an angel.” She paused, and seemed to continue almost with an effort. “Stefan is very busy. He does not care to paint autumn landscapes, so he has begun work again in the city. He's doing a fantastic study of Miss Berber, and is very much pleased with it.” “That's good,” said Farraday, evenly. “But I've got more news for you,” she went on, brightening. “I've had a good deal more time lately, Stefan being so much in town, and Baby's habits so regular. Here's the result.” She fetched from the desk a pile of manuscript, neatly penned, and laid it on her guest's knee.