“I think it is as good as the Nixie,” she said, on a sudden impulse. He swung round, staring at her almost insolently. “My dear girl, what do you know about it?” His voice was cold. The blood rushed to her heart. He had never spoken to her in that tone before. As always, her hurt silenced her. He prowled for a minute, then repeated his question about their expenses. “I don't want to have to think in cents again unless I must,” he added. Mary considered, remembering the now almost finished manuscript in her desk. “Yes, I think we can manage, dear.” “That's a blessing; then we won't talk about it any more,” he exclaimed, pinching her ear in token of satisfaction. The next day Mary sent her manuscript to be typed. In a week it had gone to Farraday at his office, complete all but three chapters, of which she enclosed an outline. With it she sent a purely formal note, asking, in the event of the book being accepted, what terms the Company could offer her, and whether she could be paid partly in advance. She put the request tentatively, knowing nothing of the method of paying for serials. In another week she had a typewritten reply from Farraday, saying that the serial had been most favorably reported, that the Company would buy it for fifteen hundred dollars, with a guarantee to begin serialization within the year, on receipt of the final chapters, that they enclosed a contract, and were hers faithfully, etc. With this was a personal note from her friend, congratulating her, and explaining that his estimate of her book had been more than borne out by his readers. “I don't want you to think others less appreciative than I,” was his tactful way of intimating that her work had been accepted on its merits alone. The letters took Mary's breath away. She had no idea that her work could fetch such a price. This stroke of fortune completely lifted her financial anxieties, but her spirits did not rise correspondingly. Six months ago she would have been girlishly triumphant at such a success, but now she felt at most a dull satisfaction. She hastened, however, to write the final chapters, and deposited the check when it came in her own bank, drawing the next month's housekeeping money half from that and half from Stefan's rapidly dwindling account. That she was able to do this gave her a feeling of relief, no more.