One evening early in October Mary telephoned Farraday to ask if she could consult him with reference to the Byrdsnest. He walked over after dinner, to find her alone in the sitting room, companioned by a wood fire and the two sleeping lovebirds.

James had been very busy at the office for some time, and it was two or three weeks since he had seen Mary. Now, as he sat opposite her, it seemed to him that the leaping firelight showed unaccustomed shadows in her cheeks and under her eyes, and that her color was less bright than formerly. Was it merely the result of her care of her baby, he wondered, or was there something more?

“I fear we've already outstayed our time here, Mr. Farraday,” Mary was saying, “and yet I am going to ask you for an extension.”

Farraday lit a cigarette.

“My dear Mrs. Byrd, stay as long as you like.”

“But you don't know the measure of my demands,” she went on, with a hesitating smile. “They are so extensive that I'm ashamed. I love this little place, Mr. Farraday; it's the first real home I've ever had of my own. And Baby does so splendidly here—I can't bear the thought of taking him to the city. How long might I really hope to stay without inconveniencing you? I mean, of course, at a proper rent.”

“As far as I am concerned,” he smiled back at her, “I shall be overjoyed to have you stay as long as the place attracts you. If you like, I will give you a lease—a year, two, or three, as you will, so that you could feel settled, or an option to renew after the first year.”

“But, Mr. Farraday, your mother told me that you used to use the place, and in the face of that I don't know how I have the selfishness to ask you for any time at all, to say nothing of a lease!”

“Mrs. Byrd.” Farraday threw his cigarette into the fire, and, leaning forward, stared at the flames, his hands clasped between his knees. “Let me tell you a sentimental little story, which no one else knows except our friend Mac.” He smiled whimsically.

“When I was a young man I was very much in love, and looked forward to having a home of my own, and children. But I was unfortunate—I did not succeed in winning the woman I loved, and as I am slow to change, I made up my mind that my dream home would never come true. But I was very fond of my 'cottage in the air,' and some years later, when this little house became empty, I arranged it to look as nearly as I could as that other might have done. I used to sit here sometimes and pretend that my shadows were real. You will laugh at me, but I even have in my desk plans for an addition, an ell, containing a play room and nurseries.”

Mary gave a little pitiful exclamation, and touched his clasped hands. Meeting her eyes, he saw them dewy with sympathy.

“You are very gracious to a sentimental old bachelor,” he said, with his winning smile. “But these ghosts were bad for me. I was in danger of becoming absurdly self-centered, almost morbidly introspective. Mac, whose heart is the biggest I know, and who laughs away more troubles than I ever dreamed of, rallied me about it, and showed me that I ought to turn my disappointment to some use. This was about ten years ago, when his own life fell to pieces. I had been associated with magazines for some time, and knew how little that was really good found its way into the plainer people's homes. At Mac's suggestion I bought an insolvent monthly, and began to remodel it. 'You've got the home-and-children bug; well, do something for other people's'—was the way Mac put it to me. Later we started the two other magazines, always keeping before us our aim of giving the average home the best there is. To-day, though I have no children of my own, I like to think I'm a sort of uncle to thousands.”

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.

“This is the second thing I wanted to consult you about. It's a book-length story for children, called 'The House in the Wood.' I've written the first third, and outlined the rest. Here's the list of chapters. It is supposed to be for children between eight and fourteen, and was first suggested to me by this house. There is a family of four children, and a regulation father and mother, nurse, governess, and grandmother. They live in the country, and the children find a little deserted cottage which they adopt to play in. The book is full of their adventures in it. My idea is—” she sat beside him, her eyes brightening with interest—“to suggest all kinds of games to the children who read the story, which seem thrilling, but are really educational. It's quite a moral little book, I'm afraid,” she laughed, “but I think story books should describe adventures which may be within the scope of the ordinary child's life, don't you? I'm afraid it isn't a work of art, but I hope—if I can work out the scheme—it may give some practical ideas to mothers who don't know how to amuse their children.... There, Mr. Editor, what is your verdict?”

Farraday was turning the pages in his rapid, absorbed way. He nodded and smiled as he looked.

“I think it's a good idea, Mrs. Byrd; just the sort of thing we are always on the lookout for. The subject might be trite enough, but I suspect you of having lent it charm and freshness. Of course the family is English, which is a disadvantage, but I see you've mixed in a small American visitor, and that he's beginning to teach the others a thing or two! Where did you learn such serpent wisdom, young lady?”

She laughed, amazed as she had been a year ago at his lightning-like apprehension.

“It isn't humbug. I do think an American child could teach ours at home a lot about inventiveness, independence, and democracy—just as I think ours might teach him something about manners,” she added, smiling.

“Admitted,” said he, laying down the manuscript, “and thank you for letting me see this. I claim the first refusal. Finish it, have it typed, and send it in, and if I can run it as a serial in The Child at Home, I shall be tremendously pleased to do so. If it goes, it ought to come out in book form, illustrated.”

“You really think the idea has something in it?”

“I certainly do, and you know how much I believe in your work.”

“Oh, I'm so glad,” she exclaimed, looking far more cheerful than he had seen her that evening.

He rose to go, and held her hand a moment in his friendly grasp.

“Good night, dear Mrs. Byrd; give my love to Elliston, and remember that in him and your work you have two priceless treasures which, even alone, will give you happiness.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, her eyes shining; “good night, and thank you for the house.”

“Good night, and in the house's name, thank you,” he answered from the door.

As she closed it, the brightness slowly faded from Mary's face. She looked at the clock—it was past ten.

“Not to-night, either,” she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. “No, better not,” she thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As, candle in hand, she passed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in. His bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought.

With a sigh, she entered her own room, and passed through it to the nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow, his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the house! It was the home of love—love lay all about her, in the kind protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices and faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and the sweetness of young life—and she was utterly lonely. One short year ago she thought she would never know loneliness again—only a year ago.

The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's spotless coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and carefully broke it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and lifting the baby, gave him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his sleep-laden eyes. She kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid him down, waiting while he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep.

“Little Stefan, little Stefan,” she whispered.

Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay down on the cool, empty bed.