Mr. V.V.’s encouraging smile became a little fixed.  Yet there came nothing of a smirk into it, nothing the least bit superior....  Was this the explanation of the little girl’s odd yearning toward pens and desks?  How came she to revere the Bard, where even to hear his name?  Was it possible that Mrs. Garland’s changeling had a spark in her, a magic urging her on?...

“Epic poet, is it?” said he aloud, cheerily.  “Oh, I daresay something of the sort can be arranged.  No harm in having a try anyhow!  First thing, of course, is to get a good education....”

And he spoke of the High School, when Kern got back from her trip, with a little brushing-up, first, perhaps, under his personal supervision....

And next morning, when Kern’s temperature stood down a whole degree at nine o’clock, these great plans seemed to come nearer at a bound.  That day the Dabney House drew a long breath and smiled.  Miss Masters was even more confident than Vivian that the hard corner had been turned.  So the verdict went to Hen Cooney, who telephoned from Saltman’s; and so it went to Jem Noonan, who was to be found waiting in front of the Dabney House every evening in these days, silently biting a Heth Plantation Cheroot, which he smoked because Kern made them, though secretly preferring the White River brand, made by the Trust.  A great capacity for waiting had Jem.  And that was the afternoon also that Doctor mysteriously vanished from his office before four o’clock, having left no word where he could be reached with his office-boy, Mrs. Garland; and was still out when O’Neill called at quarter to six, to talk about his factory law....

Next day, these novel excitements continued.  For when Corinne Garland first opened her eyes that morning, they fell at once upon an imagined wonder out of fairyland.  There it stood close to her bed’s head, shining gloriously in the early sun, looking, oh, so real....  Kern lay extremely still, gazing wide-eyed:  for well she knew the way of dreams, how you forgot and moved a little, and then it all winked out.  But after a time, when It did not stir or dance about at all, there came to her a desperate courage, and she stretched out a trembling little hand.  And lo, the hand encountered a solid unmistakable.  And then Kern gave a great gasping Oh, and sat up in bed; and presently, being very weak, she began to cry, she was so happy.

It really was the prettiest Writing-Desk in the world, a desk for a duchess’s boudoir, all made of polished rosewood, and standing tall and graceful on four curving legs.  It had an astounding lid, this Writing-Desk had; that you either locked up or let down; and when you let it down the lid had a shining slab of plate glass all screwed on, thus becoming the loveliest place to write on that you could well imagine.  And the inside parts of the Desk were running over with delightful things, note-paper and envelopes, and pads and pencils, and new white blotting-paper and—­true as true, dull black, with the cutest little silver belt—­a beautiful Founting Pen.  Inside also were pigeonholes of the best quality, like in the Netiquette.  And in one of the pigeonholes there lay, sure enough, a note; not, indeed, from a mustached count with a neyeglass, but from one who perhaps seemed not less of the purple to the fevered little buncher.