e tried, until I am discouraged, to make people understand that a
book does not have to be a verity in order to be true--that a story
must be possible, instead of actual, and that actual circumstances may
be too unreal for literature.

There are always people who will ask that things, even books, may be
written especially for them. People often want to tell me a story and
let me write it up into a nice book and divide the royalties with
them! During a summer at the coast, I had endless opportunities to
write biographical sketches of the guests at the hotel--to write a
story and put them all into it, or to write something about anything,
that they might have as "a souvenir!" As a matter of fact, there were
only two people at the hotel who could have been of any possible use
as copy, and one of these was a woman to whom only Mr. Stockton could
have done justice.

It was hard to be always good-natured, but I lost my temper only once.
We stayed late into the autumn and were rewarded by a magnificent
storm. I put on my bathing suit and my mackintosh and went down to the
beach, in the teeth of a northwest gale. Little needles of sand were
blown in my face, and I lost my cap, but it was well worth the effort.
For over an hour we stood on the desolate beach, sheltered from the
sand by a bath house. I had never seen anything so grand--it was far
beyond words. At last it grew dark and I was soaked through and stiff
with the cold. So I went back to the hotel, my soul struck dumb by
the might and glory of the sea. My heart was too full to speak. The
majestic chords were still thundering in my ears; that tempest-tossed
ocean was still before my eyes. On my way upstairs I met a woman whom
I had formerly liked.

"Oh, Miss ----, I want you to write me a description of that storm!" I
brushed past her, rudely, I fear, and she caught hold of the cape of
my mackintosh with elephantine playfulness. "You can't go," she said
coquettishly, "until you promise to write me a description of that
storm!"

"I can't write it," I said coldly. "Please let me go."

"You've got to write it," she returned. "I know you can, and I won't
let you go until you promise me."

I wrenched myself away from her, white with wrath, and got to my room
before she did, though she was still pursuing me. I locked my door and
had a hard fight for my self-control. From the beach came the distant
boom of the surf, mingled with the liquid melody of the returning
breake