“Don’t think, Dicky! I’m just resting a little. We must work together a lot. We must clear our heads with stacks of work--and then maybe we’ll know if we can play.... Fanny Gallup did that for me, and Rufe Melton is as much a baby as his infant. Other girl, or not--Rufe will always need--us!” “Pidge, listen! I couldn’t stand any more than that now. To have you say that--_us_! To have the work with you--to have earned that--to have your faith; that you dare come this close--to have years to make the big moments we have known apart, come true together--I couldn’t stand more, right now; that’s the fact of it--quite!” She stepped back from him looking strangely into his face again. “Dicky!” “Yes?” “The boy has come back to your face--that you lost in Africa--but the new and lasting Boy!” He laughed and looked around the room. It was furnished, but barely, the “parlor” having reverted to a sleeping room. “But how did it happen--that we should come here, Pidge?” “I couldn’t let you come to Gramercy Park. I remembered that you waited to see me here after Africa, not at the office. I came down this way--the afternoon of the Legacy and saw the sign, ‘Rooms, Permanent and Transient.’... I’m better now. It’s been hours, hasn’t it?” He thought of Conrad, whom he had told to wait. “... This room’s all paid for,” she whispered. “I mean we don’t have to stop to speak to anybody--only walk out.” Their eyes held. “Dicky!” “Yes----” “Let’s go--now.” “I’m--I’m ready.” “Dear Dicky, the years have done so much for you! The blur, the maze has gone out from between us. It’s so much more wonderful, isn’t it, than that other night here, when I almost, almost----?” He waited for her to reach the hall curtains, before he turned off the light. In the dimness of the hall, he heard her low, slow tone: “Fanny’s room was back--at the far end on this floor----” “... I remember once, Pidge, I went up the next flight and knocked at the door of your little back room----” “That’s gone now,” she answered. “Gone?” “My two books that were written there--and all the rest! I can tell you everything now--and of the book that is still to be written--our story, Dicky.” “A continued story,” he said. They went down into the street, into the car. THE END NOVELS OF SUPREME LITERARY ART =THE GLIMPSES OF THE MOON= By EDITH WHARTON “I can think of no American novel, written within the last few years, and dealing with contemporary life, to compare with it. And not only does Mrs. Wharton write better than anyone else, but she knows how to unfold a more exciting tale.”--Katherine Fullerton Gerould in the _New York Times_. =THE MIRACLE= By E. TEMPLE THURSTON A keen, human story of the west coast of Ireland, with peculiar fascination in the rich background of Irish folk lore. =THE VAN ROON= By J. C. SNAITH An unusual and totally absorbing plot, delightfully told, and a remarkable set of characters, unmatched since Dickens. =THE MOUNTAIN SCHOOL TEACHER=