nother that "Sister Teresa" is not a sequel to "Evelyn Innes."
Nor will any statement of mine made here or elsewhere convince the
editors of newspapers and reviews to whom this book will be sent for
criticism that it is not a revised edition of a book written ten
years ago, but an entirely new book written within the last eighteen
months; the title will deceive them, and my new book will be thrown
aside or given to a critic with instructions that he may notice it
in ten or a dozen lines. Nor will the fact that "Evelyn Innes"
occupies a unique place in English literature cause them to order
that the book shall be reread and reconsidered--a unique place I
hasten to add which it may easily lose to-morrow, for the claim made
for it is not one of merit, but of kind.

"Evelyn Innes" is a love story, the first written in English for
three hundred years, and the only one we have in prose narrative.
For this assertion not to seem ridiculous it must be remembered that
a love story is not one in which love is used as an ingredient; if
that were so nearly all novels would be love stories; even Scott's
historical novels could not be excluded. In the true love story love
is the exclusive theme; and perhaps the reason why love stories are
so rare in literature is because the difficulty of maintaining the
interest is so great; probably those in existence were written
without intention to write love stories. Mine certainly was. The
manuscript of this book was among the printers before it broke on me
one evening as I hung over the fire that what I had written was a
true love story about a man and a woman who meet to love each other,
who are separated for material or spiritual reasons, and who at the
end of the story are united in death or affection, no matter which,
the essential is that they should be united. My story only varies
from the classical formula in this, that the passion of "the lovely
twain" is differentiated.

It would be interesting to pursue this subject, and there are other
points which it would be interesting to touch upon; there must be a
good deal for criticism in a book which has been dreamed and
re-dreamed for ten years. But, again, of what avail? The book I now
offer to the public will not be read till I am dead. I have written
for posterity if I have written for anybody except myself. The
reflection is not altogether a pleasant one. But there it is; we
follow our instinct for good or evil, but we follow it; and