own acknowledges the sweet concord, and we know that the two can never again be entirely divided.
Margaret had received her first commission. Her voice was heard singing a happy little tune over the work which, from that time forth, acquired a new dignity in her eyes. It had a market value. It was merchantable, like sugar and cotton, bricks and breadstuffs. Men would exchange that which they love best after—and sometimes before—their own souls for its possession. She was an amateur no longer. She had become a money-getter, a bread-winner, a producer. The mere fact that she was to get so many dollars for fulfilling the order would not have accounted for the exhilaration of Margaret's spirits. It would be hard to imagine a person to whom the possession of wealth was of less importance. She had never wanted for anything in her life. Her tastes were simple. She gave away half the income which was settled on herself because she did not care to take the time or thought to spend it. She was not an heiress, but had a sufficient fortune to maintain her comfortably all her days. Money meant only to her what it does to those who have neither suffered the need of it nor felt the embarrassment of its excess. There must have been some reason, then, for Margaret's happiness,
