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           “Shewillneverbeabletowriteit,”IexplainedtoDavid.“Shehasnottheability.TellherIsaidthat.”

           IrememberednowthatformanymonthsIhadheardnothingofherambitiousproject,soIquestionedDavidanddiscoveredthatitwasabandoned.Hecouldnotsaywhy,norwasitnecessarythatheshould,thetriviallittlereasonwasatoncesoplaintome.FromthatmomentallmysympathywithMarywasspilled,andIsearchedforsomemeansofexultingoverheruntilIfoundit.Itwasthis.Idecided,unknowneventoDavid,towritethebook“TheLittleWhiteBird,”ofwhichshehadprovedherselfincapable,andthenwhen,inthefulnessoftime,sheheldherbabyonhigh,implyingthatshehaddoneabigthing,Iwastoholdupthebook.Iventuretothinkthatsuchadevilishrevengewasneverbeforeplannedandcarriedout.

           Yes,carriedout,forthisisthebook,rapidlyapproachingcompletion.SheandIarerunninganeck-and-neckrace.

           IhavealsooncemorebroughtthestoryofDavid’sadventurestoanabruptend.“Anditreallyistheendthistime,David,”Isaidseverely.(Ialwayssaythat.)

           ItendedonthecoastofPatagonia,whitherwehadgonetoshootthegreatSloth,knowntobethelargestofanimals,thoughwefoundhissizetohavebeenunder-estimated.David,hisfatherandIhadflungourlimbsuponthebeachandwerehavingalastpipebeforeturningin,whileMary,attiredinbarbaricsplendour,sanganddancedbeforeus.Itwasalovelyevening,andwelolledmanlike,gazing,well-content,attheprettycreature.