It was only yesterday afternoon, dear reader, exactly three weeksafter the birth of Barbara, that I finished the book, and eventhen it was not quite finished, for there remained thededication, at which I set to elatedly. I think I have neverenjoyed myself more; indeed, it is my opinion that I wrote thebook as an excuse for writing the dedication.

"Madam" (I wrote wittily), "I have no desire to exult over you,yet I should show a lamentable obtuseness to the irony of thingswere I not to dedicate this little work to you. For itsinception was yours, and in your more ambitious days you thoughtto write the tale of the little white bird yourself. Why you soearly deserted the nest is not for me to inquire. It now appearsthat you were otherwise occupied. In fine, madam, you chose thelower road, and contented yourself with obtaining the Bird. MayI point out, by presenting you with this dedication, that in themeantime I am become the parent of the Book? To you the shadow,to me the substance. Trusting that you will accept my littleoffering in a Christian spirit, I am, dear madam," etc.

It was heady work, for the saucy words showed their designplainly through the varnish, and I was re-reading in an ecstasy,when, without warning, the door burst open and a little boyentered, dragging in a faltering lady.

"Father," said David, "this is mother."

Having thus briefly introduced us, he turned his attention to theelectric light, and switched it on and off so rapidly that, aswas very fitting, Mary and I may be said to have met for thefirst time to the accompaniment of flashes of lightning. I thinkshe was arrayed in little blue feathers, but if such a costume isnot seemly, I swear there were, at least, little blue feathers inher too coquettish cap, and that she was carrying a muff tomatch. No part of a woman is more dangerous than her muff, andas muffs are not worn in early autumn, even by invalids, I saw ina twink, that she had put on all her pretty things to wheedle me.I am also of opinion that she remembered she had worn blue inthe days when I watched her from the club-window. UndoubtedlyMary is an engaging little creature, though not my style. Shewas paler than is her wont, and had the touching look of one whomit would be easy to break. I daresay this was a trick. Herskirts made music in my room, but perhaps this was only becauseno lady had ever rustled in it before. It was disquieting to meto reflect that despite her obvious uneasiness, she was a veryartful woman.

With the quickness of David at the switch, I slipped a blotting-pad over the dedication, and then, "Pray be seated," I saidcoldly, but she remained standing, all in a twitter and very muchafraid of me, and I know that her hands were pressed togetherwithin the muff. Had there been any dignified means of escape, Ithink we would both have taken it.

"I should not have come," she said nervously, and then seemed towait for some response, so I bowed.

"I was terrified to come, indeed I was," she assured me withobvious sincerity.

"But I have come," she finished rather baldly.

"It is an epitome, ma'am," said I, seeing my chance, "of yourwhole life," and with that I put her into my elbow-chair.

She began to talk of my adventures with David in the Gardens, andof some little things I have not mentioned here, that I may havedone for her when I was in a wayward mood, and her voice was assoft as her muff. She had also an affecting way of pronouncingall her r's as w's, just as the fairies do. "And so," she said,"as you would not come to me to be thanked, I have come to you tothank you." Whereupon she thanked me most abominably. She alsoslid one of her hands out of the muff, and though she was smilingher eyes were wet.

"Pooh, ma'am," said I in desperation, but I did not take herhand.

"I am not very strong yet," she said with low cunning. She saidthis to make me take her hand, so I took it, and perhaps I pattedit a little. Then I walked brusquely to the window. The truthis, I begun to think uncomfortably of the dedication.

I went to the window because, undoubtedly, it would be easier toaddress her severely from behind, and I wanted to say somethingthat would sting her.

"When you have quite done, ma'am," I said, after a long pause,"perhaps you will allow me to say a word."

I could see the back of her head only, but I knew, from David'sface, that she had given him a quick look which did not implythat she was stung. Indeed I felt now, as I had felt before,that though she was agitated and in some fear of me, she was alsoenjoying herself considerably.

In such circumstances I might as well have tried to sting a sand-bank, so I said, rather off my watch, "If I have done all thisfor you, why did I do it?"

She made no answer in words, but seemed to grow taller in thechair, so that I could see her shoulders, and I knew from thisthat she was now holding herself conceitedly and trying to lookmodest. "Not a bit of it, ma'am," said I sharply, "that was notthe reason at all."

I was pleased to see her whisk round, rather indignant at last.

"I never said it was," she retorted with spirit, "I never thoughtfor a moment that it was." She added, a trifle too late in thestory, "Besides, I don't know what you are talking of."

I think I must have smiled here, for she turned from me quickly,and became quite little in the chair again.

"David," said I mercilessly, "did you ever see your motherblush?"

"What is blush?"

"She goes a beautiful pink colour."

David, who had by this time broken my connection with the headoffice, crossed to his mother expectantly.

"I don't, David," she cried.

"I think," said I, "she will do it now," and with the instinct ofa gentleman I looked away. Thus I cannot tell what happened, butpresently David exclaimed admiringly, "Oh, mother, do it again!"

As she would not, he stood on the fender to see in the mantel-glass whether he could do it himself, and then Mary turned a mostcandid face on me, in which was maternity rather than reproach.Perhaps no look given by woman to man affects him quite so much."You see," she said radiantly and with a gesture that disclosedherself to me, "I can forgive even that. You long ago earned theright to hurt me if you want to."

It weaned me of all further desire to rail at Mary, and I felt anuncommon drawing to her.

"And if I did think that for a little while--," she went on, withan unsteady smile.

"Think what?" I asked, but without the necessary snap.

"What we were talking of," she replied wincing, but forgiving meagain. "If I once thought that, it was pretty to me while itlasted and it lasted but a little time. I have long been surethat your kindness to me was due to some other reason."

"Ma'am," said I very honestly, "I know not what was the reason.My concern for you was in the beginning a very fragile and even aselfish thing, yet not altogether selfish, for I think that whatfirst stirred it was the joyous sway of the little nurserygoverness as she walked down Pall Mall to meet her lover. Itseemed such a mighty fine thing to you to be loved that I thoughtyou had better continue to be loved for a little longer. Andperhaps having helped you once by dropping a letter I was charmedby the ease with which you could be helped, for you must knowthat I am one who has chosen the easy way for more than twentyyears."

She shook her head and smiled. "On my soul," I assured her, "Ican think of no other reason."

"A kind heart," said she.

"More likely a whim," said I.

"Or another woman," said she.

I was very much taken aback.

"More than twenty years ago," she said with a soft huskiness inher voice, and a tremor and a sweetness, as if she did not knowthat in twenty years all love stories are grown mouldy.

On my honour as a soldier this explanation of my early solicitudefor Mary was one that had never struck me, but the more Ipondered it now--. I raised her hand and touched it with my lips,as we whimsical old fellows do when some gracious girl makes usto hear the key in the lock of long ago. "Why, ma'am," I said,"it is a pretty notion, and there may be something in it. Let usleave it at that."

But there was still that accursed dedication, lying, youremember, beneath the blotting-pad. I had no longer any desireto crush her with it. I wished that she had succeeded in writingthe book on which her longings had been so set.

"If only you had been less ambitious," I said, much troubled thatshe should be disappointed in her heart's desire.

"I wanted all the dear delicious things," she admittedcontritely.

"It was unreasonable," I said eagerly, appealing to herintellect. "Especially this last thing."

"Yes," she agreed frankly, "I know." And then to my amazementshe added triumphantly, "But I got it."

I suppose my look admonished her, for she continuedapologetically but still as if she really thought hers had been aromantic career, "I know I have not deserved it, but I got it."

"Oh, ma'am," I cried reproachfully, "reflect. You have not gotthe great thing." I saw her counting the great things in hermind, her wondrous husband and his obscure success, David,Barbara, and the other trifling contents of her jewel-box.

"I think I have," said she.

"Come, madam," I cried a little nettled, "you know that there islacking the one thing you craved for most of all."

Will you believe me that I had to tell her what it was? And whenI had told her she exclaimed with extraordinary callousness, "Thebook? I had forgotten all about the book!" And then afterreflection she added, "Pooh!" Had she not added Pooh I mighthave spared her, but as it was I raised the blotting-pad ratherhaughtily and presented her with the sheet beneath it.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Ma'am," said I, swelling, "it is a Dedication," and I walkedmajestically to the window.

There is no doubt that presently I heard an unexpected sound. Yet if indeed it had been a laugh she clipped it short, for inalmost the same moment she was looking large-eyed at me andtapping my sleeve impulsively with her fingers, just as Daviddoes when he suddenly likes you.

"How characteristic of you," she said at the window.

"Characteristic," I echoed uneasily. "Ha!"

"And how kind."

"Did you say kind, ma'am?"

"But it is I who have the substance and you who have the shadow,as you know very well," said she.

Yes, I had always known that this was the one flaw in mydedication, but how could I have expected her to have the wit tosee it? I was very depressed.

"And there is another mistake," said she.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but that is the only one."

"It was never of my little white bird I wanted to write," shesaid.

I looked politely incredulous, and then indeed she overwhelmedme. "It was of your little white bird," she said, "it was of alittle boy whose name was Timothy."

She had a very pretty way of saying Timothy, so David and I wentinto another room to leave her alone with the manuscript of thispoor little book, and when we returned she had the greatestsurprise of the day for me. She was both laughing and crying,which was no surprise, for all of us would laugh and cry over abook about such an interesting subject as ourselves, but saidshe, "How wrong you are in thinking this book is about me andmine, it is really all about Timothy."

At first I deemed this to be uncommon nonsense, but as Iconsidered I saw that she was probably right again, and I gazedcrestfallen at this very clever woman.

"And so," said she, clapping her hands after the manner of Davidwhen he makes a great discovery, "it proves to be my book afterall."

"With all your pretty thoughts left out," I answered, properlyhumbled.

She spoke in a lower voice as if David must not hear. "I hadonly one pretty thought for the book," she said, "I was to giveit a happy ending." She said this so timidly that I was about tomelt to her when she added with extraordinary boldness, "Thelittle white bird was to bear an olive-leaf in its mouth."

For a long time she talked to me earnestly of a grand scheme onwhich she had set her heart, and ever and anon she tapped on meas if to get admittance for her ideas. I listened respectfully,smiling at this young thing for carrying it so motherly to me,and in the end I had to remind her that I was forty-seven yearsof age.

"It is quite young for a man," she said brazenly.

"My father," said I, "was not forty-seven when he died, and Iremember thinking him an old man."

"But you don't think so now, do you?" she persisted, "you feelyoung occasionally, don't you? Sometimes when you are playingwith David in the Gardens your youth comes swinging back, does itnot?"

"Mary A----," I cried, grown afraid of the woman, "I forbid you tomake any more discoveries to-day."

But still she hugged her scheme, which I doubt not was what hadbrought her to my rooms. "They are very dear women," said shecoaxingly.

"I am sure," I said, "they must be dear women if they are friendsof yours."

"They are not exactly young," she faltered, "and perhaps they arenot very pretty--"

But she had been reading so recently about the darling of myyouth that she halted abashed at last, feeling, I apprehend, astop in her mind against proposing this thing to me, who, inthose presumptuous days, had thought to be content with nothingless than the loveliest lady in all the land.

My thoughts had reverted also, and for the last time my eyes sawthe little hut through the pine wood haze. I met Mary there, andwe came back to the present together.

I have already told you, reader, that this conversation tookplace no longer ago than yesterday.

"Very well, ma'am," I said, trying to put a brave face on it, "Iwill come to your tea-parties, and we shall see what we shallsee."

It was really all she had asked for, but now that she had gotwhat she wanted of me the foolish soul's eyes became wet, sheknew so well that the youthful romances are the best.

It was now my turn to comfort her. "In twenty years," I said,smiling at her tears, "a man grows humble, Mary. I have storedwithin me a great fund of affection, with nobody to give it to,and I swear to you, on the word of a soldier, that if there isone of those ladies who can be got to care for me I shall be veryproud." Despite her semblance of delight I knew that she waswondering at me, and I wondered at myself, but it was true.