In a few minutes more the boat rounded the next headland, the beach vanished from view, and the music died away softly in the distance.

LAST LEAVES FROM LEAH’S DIARY.

3d of June.—­Our stories are ended; our pleasant work is done.  It is a lovely summer afternoon.  The great hall at the farmhouse, after having been filled with people, is now quite deserted.  I sit alone at my little work-table, with rather a crying sensation at my heart, and with the pen trembling in my fingers, as if I was an old woman already.  Our manuscript has been sealed up and taken away; the one precious object of all our most anxious thoughts for months past—­our third child, as we have got to call it—­has gone out from us on this summer’s day, to seek its fortune in the world.

A little before twelve o’clock last night, my husband dictated to me the last words of “The Yellow Mask.”  I laid down the pen, and closed the paper thoughtfully.  With that simple action the work that we had wrought at together so carefully and so long came to a close.  We were both so silent and still, that the murmuring of the trees in the night air sounded audibly and solemnly in our room.

William’s collection of stories has not, thus far, been half exhausted yet; but those who understand the public taste and the interests of bookselling better than we, think it advisable not to risk offering too much to the reader at first.  If individual opinions can be accepted as a fair test, our prospects of success seem hopeful.  The doctor (but we must not forget that he is a friend) was so pleased with the two specimen stories we sent to him, that he took them at once to his friend, the editor of the newspaper, who showed his appreciation of what he read in a very gratifying manner.  He proposed that William should publish in the newspaper, on very fair terms, any short anecdotes and curious experiences of his life as a portrait-painter, which might not be important enough to put into a book.  The money which my husband has gained from time to time in this way has just sufficed to pay our expenses at the farmhouse up to within the last month; and now our excellent friends here say they will not hear anything more from us on the subject of the rent until the book is sold and we have plenty of money.  This is one great relief and happiness.  Another, for which I feel even more grateful, is that William’s eyes have gained so much by their long rest, that even the doctor is surprised at the progress he has made.  He only puts on his green shade now when he goes out into the sun, or when the candles are lit.  His spirits are infinitely raised, and he is beginning to talk already of the time when he will unpack his palette and brushes, and take to his old portrait-painting occupations again.

With all these reasons for being happy, it seems unreasonable and ungracious in me to be feeling sad, as I do just at this moment.  I can only say, in my own justification, that it is a mournful ceremony to take leave of an old friend; and I have taken leave twice over of the book that has been like an old friend to me—­once when I had written the last word in it, and once again when I saw it carried away to London.