is　quite　so　sentimental　as　a　healthy　old　bachelor。　　He　pictured　them
  making　unity　from　his　confusions；　in　imagination　heard　the　patter　on
  the　stairs　of　tiny　feet。　　To　all　intents　and　purposes　he　would　be　a
  grandfather。　　Priding　himself　on　his　cunning；　he　kept　his　dream　to
  himself；　as　he　thought；　but　under…estimated　Ann's　smartness。
  For　days　together　she　would　follow　Matthew　with　her　eyes；　watching
  him　from　behind　her　long　lashes；　listening　in　silence　to　everything
  he　said；　vainly　seeking　to　find　points　in　him。　　He　was　unaware　of
  her　generous　intentions。　　He　had　a　vague　feeling　he　was　being
  criticised。　　He　resented　it　even　in　those　days。
  〃I　do　try；〃　said　Ann　suddenly　one　evening　apropos　of　nothing　at　all。
  〃No　one　will　ever　know　how　hard　I　try　not　to　dislike　him。〃
  Abner　looked　up。
  〃Sometimes；〃　continued　Ann；　〃I　tell　myself　I　have　almost　succeeded。
  And　then　he　will　go　and　do　something　that　will　bring　it　all　on
  again。〃
  〃What　does　he　do？〃　asked　Abner。
  〃Oh；　I　can't　tell　you；〃　confessed　Ann。　　〃If　I　told　you　it　would
  sound　as　if　it　was　my　fault。　　It's　all　so　silly。　　And　then　he　thinks
  such　a　lot　of　himself。　　If　one　only　knew　why！　　He　can't　tell　you
  himself　when　you　ask　him。〃
  〃You　have　asked　him？〃　queried　Abner。
  〃I　wanted　to　know；〃　explained　Ann。　　〃I　thought　there　might　be
  something　in　him　that　I　could　like。〃
  〃Why　do　you　want　to　like　him？〃　asked　Abner；　wondering　how　much　she
  had　guessed。
  〃I　know；〃　wailed　Ann。　　〃You　are　hoping　that　when　I　am　grown　up　I
  shall　marry　him。　　And　I　don't　want　to。　　It's　so　ungrateful　of　me。〃
  〃Well；　you're　not　grown　up　yet；〃　Abner　consoled　her。　　〃And　so　long
  as　you　are　feeling　like　that　about　it；　I'm　not　likely　to　want　you　to
  marry　him。〃
  〃It　would　make　you　so　happy；〃　sobbed　Ann。
  〃Yes；　but　we've　got　to　think　of　the　boy；　don't　forget　that；〃　laughed
  Abner。　　〃Perhaps　he　might　object。〃
  〃He　would。　　I　know　he　would；〃　cried　Ann　with　conviction。　　〃He's　no
  better　than　I　am。〃
  〃Have　you　been　asking　him　to？〃　demanded　Abner；　springing　up　from　his
  chair。
  〃Not　to　marry　me；〃　explained　Ann。　　〃But　I　told　him　he　must　be　an
  unnatural　little　beast　not　to　try　to　like　me　when　he　knew　how　you
  loved　me。〃
  〃Helpful　way　of　putting　it；〃　growled　Abner。　　〃And　what　did　he　say　to
  that？〃
  〃Admitted　it；〃　flashed　Ann　indignantly。　　〃Said　he　had　tried。〃
  Abner　succeeded　in　persuading　her　that　the　path　of　dignity　and
  virtue　lay　in　her　dismissing　the　whole　subject　from　her　mind。
  He　had　made　a　mistake；　so　he　told　himself。　　Age　may　be　attracted　by
  contrast；　but　youth　has　no　use　for　its　opposite。　　He　would　send
  Matthew　away。　　He　could　return　for　week…ends。　　Continually　so　close
  to　one　another；　they　saw　only　one　another's　specks　and　flaws；　there
  is　no　beauty　without　perspective。　　Matthew　wanted　the　corners　rubbed
  off　him；　that　was　all。　　Mixing　more　with　men；　his　priggishness　would
  be　laughed　out　of　him。　　Otherwise　he　was　quite　a　decent　youngster；
  clean　minded；　high　principled。　　Clever；　too：　　he　often　said　quite
  unexpected　things。　　With　approaching　womanhood；　changes　were　taking
  place　in　Ann。　　Seeing　her　every　day　one　hardly　noticed　them；　but
  there　were　times　when；　standing　before　him　flushed　from　a　walk　or
  bending　over　him　to　kiss　him　before　starting　for　some　friendly
  dance；　Abner　would　blink　his　eyes　and　be　puzzled。　　The　thin　arms
  were　growing　round　and　firm；　the　sallow　complexion　warming　into
  olive；　the　once　patchy；　mouse…coloured　hair　darkening　into　a　rich
  harmony　of　brown。　　The　eyes　beneath　her　level　brows；　that　had　always
  been　her　charm；　still　reminded　Abner　of　her　mother；　but　there　was
  more　light　in　them；　more　danger。
  〃I'll　run　down　to　Albany　and　talk　to　Jephson　about　him；〃　decided
  Abner。　　〃He　can　come　home　on　Saturdays。〃
  The　plot　might　have　succeeded：　　one　never　can　tell。　　But　a　New　York
  blizzard　put　a　stop　to　it。　　The　cars　broke　down；　and　Abner；　walking
  home　in　thin　shoes　from　a　meeting；　caught　a　chill；　which；　being
  neglected；　proved　fatal。
  Abner　was　troubled　as　he　lay　upon　his　bed。　　The　children　were
  sitting　very　silent　by　the　window。　　He　sent　Matthew　out　on　a
  message；　and　then　beckoned　Ann　to　come　to　him。　　He　loved　the　boy；
  too；　but　Ann　was　nearer　to　him。
  〃You　haven't　thought　any　more；〃　he　whispered；　〃about〃
  〃No；〃　answered　Ann。　　〃You　wished　me　not　to。〃
  〃You　must　never　think；〃　he　said；　〃to　show　your　love　for　my　memory　by
  doing　anything　that　would　not　make　you　happy。　　If　I　am　anywhere
  around；〃　he　continued　with　a　smile；　〃it　will　be　your　good　I　shall　be
  watching　for；　not　my　own　way。　　You　will　remember　that？〃
  He　had　meant　to　do　more　for　them；　but　the　end　had　come　so　much
  sooner　than　he　had　expected。　　To　Ann　he　left　the　house　（Mrs。　Travers
  had　already　retired　on　a　small　pension）　and　a　sum　that；　judiciously
  invested；　the　friend　and　attorney　thought　should　be　sufficient　for
  her　needs；　even　supposingThe　friend　and　attorney；　pausing　to　dwell
  upon　the　oval　face　with　its　dark　eyes；　left　the　sentence　unfinished。
  To　Matthew　he　wrote　a　loving　letter；　enclosing　a　thousand　dollars。
  He　knew　that　Matthew；　now　in　a　position　to　earn　his　living　as　a
  journalist；　would　rather　have　taken　nothing。　　It　was　to　be　looked
  upon　merely　as　a　parting　gift。　　Matthew　decided　to　spend　it　on
  travel。　　It　would　fit　him　the　better　for　his　journalistic　career；　so
  he　explained　to　Ann。　　But　in　his　heart　he　had　other　ambitions。　　It
  would　enable　him　to　put　them　to　the　test。
  So　there　came　an　evening　when　Ann　stood　waving　a　handkerchief　as　a
  great　liner　cast　its　moorings。　　She　watched　it　till　its　lights　grew
  dim；　and　then　returned　to　West　Twentieth　Street。　　Strangers　would
  take　possession　of　it　on　the　morrow。　　Ann　had　her　supper　in　the
  kitchen　in　company　with　the　nurse；　who　had　stayed　on　at　her　request；
  and　that　night；　slipping　noiselessly　from　her　room；　she　lay　upon　the
  floor；　her　head　resting　against　the　arm　of　the　chair　where　Abner　had
  been　wont　to　sit　and　smoke　his　evening　pipe；　somehow　it　seemed　to
  comfort　her。　　And　Matthew　the　while；　beneath　the　stars；　was　pacing
  the　silent　deck　of　the　great　liner　and　planning　out　the　future。
  To　only　one　other　being　had　he　ever　confided　his　dreams。　　She　lay　in
  the　churchyard；　and　there　was　nothing　left　to　encourage　him　but　his
  own　heart。　　But　he　had　no　doubts。　　He　would　be　a　great　writer。　　His
  two　hundred　pounds　would　support　him　till　he　had　gained　a　foothold。
  After　that　he　would　climb　swiftly。　　He　had　done　right；　so　he　told
  himself；　to　turn　his　back　on　journalism：　　the　grave　of　literature。
  He　would　see　men　and　cities；　writing　as　he　went。　　Looking　back；
  years　later；　he　was　able　to　congratulate　himself　on　having　chosen
  the　right　road。　　He　thought　it　would　lead　him　by　easy　ascent　to　fame
  and　fortune。　　It　did　better　for　him　than　that。　　It　led　him　through
  poverty　and　loneliness；　through　hope　deferred　and　heartachethrough
  long　nights　of　fear；　when　pride　and　confidence　fell　upon　him；
  leaving　him　only　the　courage　to　endure。
  His　great　poems；　his　brilliant　essays；　had　been　rejected　so　often
  that　even　he　himself　had　lost　all　love　for　them。　　At　the　suggestion
  of　an　editor　more　kindly　than　the　general　run；　and　urged　by　need；　he
  had　written　some　short　pieces　of　a　less　ambitious　nature。　　It　was　in
  bitter　disappointment　he　commenced　them；　regarding　them　as　mere
  pot…boilers。　　He　would　not　give　them　his　name。　　He　signed　them
  〃Aston　Rowant。〃　　It　was　the　name　of　the　village　in　Oxfordshire　where
  he　had　been　born。　　It　occurred　to　him　by　chance。　　It　would　serve　the
  purpose　as　well　as　another。　　As　the　work　progressed　it　grew　upon
  him。　　He　made　his　stories　out　of　incidents　and　people　he　had　seen；
  everyday　comedies　and　tragedies　that　he　had　lived　among；　of　things
  that　he　had　felt；　and　when　after　their　appearance　in　the　magazine　a
  publisher　was　found　willing　to　make　them　into　a　book；　hope　revived
  in　him。
  It　was　but　short…lived。　　The　few　reviews　that　reached　him　contained
  nothing　but　ridicule。　　So　he　had　no　place　even　as　a　literary　hack！
  He　was　living　in　Paris　at　the　time　in　a　noisy；　evil…smelling　street
  leading　out　of　the　Quai　Saint…Michel。　　He　thought　of　Chatterton；　and
  would　loaf　on　the　bridges　looking　down　into　the　river　where　the
  drowned　lights　twinkled。
  And　then　one　day　there　came　to　him　a　letter；　sent　on　to　him　from　the
  publisher　of　his　one　book。　　It　was　signed　〃Sylvia；〃　nothing　else；
  and　bore　no　address。　　Matthew　picked　up　the　envelope。　　The　postmark
  was　〃London；　S。E。〃
  It　was　a　childish　letter。　　A　prosperous；　well…fed　genius；　familiar
  with　such；　might　have　smiled　at　it。　　To　Matthew　in　his　despair　it
  brought　healing。　　She　had　found　the　book　lying　in　an　empty　railway
  carriage；　and　undeterred　by　moral　scruples　had　taken　it　home　with
  her。　　It　had　remained　forgotten　for　a　time；　until　when　the　end
  really　seemed　to　have　come　her　hand　by　chance　had　fallen　on　it。　　She
  fancied　some　kind　little　wandering　spiritthe　spirit　perhaps　of
  someone　who　had　known　what　it　was　to　be　lonely　and　very　sad　and　just
  about　broken　almostmust　have　manoeuvred　the　whole　thing。　　It　had
  seemed　to　her　as　though　some　strong　and　gentle　hand　had　been　laid
  upon　her　in　the　darkness。　　She　no　longer　felt　friendless。　　And　so
  on。
  The　book；　he　remembered；　contained　a　reference　to　the　magazine　in
  which　the　ske