There
was one thing more to be done before she left home to-morrow. She had
resolved upon it. It was dark in her room, but she needed no light to
recognize that roll of manuscript in her drawer. She hesitated a moment
as she touched it tenderly. Must she do it? Yes, ah, yes! She could not
publish that story now. Just then the picture of Arthur seemed to flash
through her mind, reading it and tossing it down with that cold, silent
look she had sometimes seen on his face. It was dark in the hall as she
carried it down to the drawing-room grate. She crouched down on the
hearth-rug before the coals, and a moment later the flames that played
among the closely-written sheets lighted her face. Nothing but a
blackened parchment now for all that proud dream of fame! The room grew
dark again, and only the coals cracking and snapping, and the steady
ticking of the old clock on the mantel piece above her head, broke the
stillness. It was done. She went to the window and knelt down.
"Father, I have sacrificed it for Thee. Take this talent Thou hast given
me and use it for Thy honor, for I would serve Thee alone, Father."
She slept that night with a smile on her lips.
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