"O Lord!" he sighed heavily. "A strange man climbs through my
parlor window to tell me, a bachelor, that my wife is locked up in
the police station. What will happen next?"
And then we laughed together and made friends. The woman was just
an ordinary lunatic.
I was late home from the office one evening the week my Christmas
article was printed. My wife was waiting for me at the door, looking
down the street. I saw that she had something on her mind, but the
children were all right, she said; nothing was amiss. Supper over,
she drew a chair to the fire and brought out a letter.
"I read it," she nodded. It was our way. The commonest business
letter is to me a human document when she has read it. Besides, she
knows so much more than I. Her heart can find a way where my head
bucks blindly against stone walls.
The letter was from Jeanette Gilder, of the _Critic_, asking if
I had thought of making my article into a book. If so, she knew a
publisher. My chance had come. I was at last to have my say.
I should have thought I would have shouted and carried on.
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