then she opened the door and looked in. Mrs. Maitland was still
at work, and she retreated noiselessly. At eleven she tried
again.

Except for the single gas-jet under a green shade that hung above
the big desk, the room was dark. Mrs. Maitland was in her chair,
writing rapidly; she did not hear Nannie's hesitating footstep,
or know that she was in the room, until the girl put her hand on
the arm of her chair.

"Mamma."

"Yes?"

"Mamma, I have something to--to tell you."

Mrs. Maitland signed her name, put her pen behind her ear, flung
a blotter down on the heavily written page, and rubbed her fist
over it. "Well?" she said cheerfully; and glanced up at her
stepdaughter over her steel-rimmed spectacles, with kind eyes;
"what are you awake for, at this hour?" Then she drew out a fresh
sheet of paper, and began to write: "My dear Sir:--Yours
received, and con--"

"Mamma . . . Blair is married."

The pen made a quick, very slight upward movement; there was a
spatter of ink; then the powerful, beautiful hand went on evenly
"--tents noted." She rubbed the blotter over this line, put the
pen in a cup of shot, and turned around. "What did you say?"