After a moment she asked what it was that her husband was writing, and he answered, almost timidly, that it was a book on trees; he had had the idea in his mind for a number of years but had never had the energy to begin it before. “Why not?” she asked almost sharply, but before he had time to answer--and it was evident he himself had no idea of the real answer--Celia broke in: “And what do you think, mother? I’ve won the prize for composition at school. I had the idea the very night you went away, and I’ve worked and worked over it, and they all say that it is much better than anything I ever did before. Aren’t you glad?” Yes, her mother was glad, but a strain of bitterness mingled with her rejoicing. Was it, indeed, her absence that had released all the vital energy? One hope lingered unacknowledged in her breast. She turned to her husband. “And have they made you comfortable since I went?” she asked. “Oh, perfectly,” he replied. “Everything has gone without a hitch, thanks to your arrangements.” “Yes,” Celia chimed in, “the servants have been too wonderful; they’ve done everything just as if you were at home, only better.” Mrs. Royce looked round the room, where to her eye everything was wrong--the corners dusty, the lamps ill-cared for, the sofa pillows rumpled, and the tea-tray, which ought to have been removed, still standing disordered in a corner. She stretched her hand toward the bell to ring and order it taken away; and then, checking herself, she sank back and folded her hands idly in her lap. Her husband had begun to tell her something about his book. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.