After a week devoted
by Mr. Waddington and himself to a fruitless search for the missing
plant, they had handed the matter over to a private detective and Burton
had settled down to make the most of the time before him. Day after day
of strange joys had dawned and passed away. He had peopled his room
with shadows. Edith had looked at him out of her wonderful eyes, he had
felt the touch of her fingers as she had knelt by his side, the glow
which had crept into his heart as he had read to her fragments of his
story and listened to her words of praise. The wall which he had built
stood firm and fast. He lived in his new days. Life was all
foreground, and hour by hour the splendid fancies came.
It was his first great effort at composition. Those little studies of
his, as he had passed backwards and forwards through the streets and
crowded places, had counted for little. Here he was making serious
demands upon his new capacity. In a sense it was all very easy, all
very wonderful, yet sometimes dejection came. Then his head drooped
upon his folded arms, he doubted himself and his work, he told himself
that he was living in a fool's Paradise--a fool's Paradise indeed!
One afternoon there came a timid knock at his door.
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