genius is always
appreciated, she will, without doubt, make her fortune. Nay, if Miss
Bal--but again we cannot proceed for the want of an interpreter--if Miss
B., we say, will only accept a position at Cleary's Waxworks and give
readings from her poetry, or exhibit herself in the act of pronouncing
her own name, she will be a greater draw in this city than Punch and
Judy, or even the latest American advertising evangelist, who preaches
standing on his head."

The junior reporter ceased here from very admiration at his own
cleverness in so exactly hitting the tone of the masters of his craft,
and handed his manuscript in to the editor.

It was the gloaming of a long June day when Rob Affleck, the woodman
over at Barbrax, having been at New Dalry with a cart of wood, left his
horse on the roadside and ran over through Gavin's old short cut, now
seldom used, to Janet's cottage with a paper in a yellow wrapper.

"Leave it on the step, and thank you kindly, Rob," said a weak voice
within; and Rob, anxious about his horse and his bed, did so without
another word. In a moment or two Janet crawled to the door, listened
to make sure that Rob was really gone, opened the door, and protruded a
hand wasted to the hard, flat bone--an arm that ought for years to have
been full of flesh and noble curves.

When Janet got back to bed it was too dark to see anything except the
big printing at the top of the paper.

"Two columns of it!" said Janet, with great thankfulness in her heart,
lifting up her soul to God who had given her the power to sing. She
strained her prematurely old and weary eyes to make out the sense. "A
genuine source of pride to every native of the ancient province," she
read.

"The Lord be praised!" said Janet, in a rapture of devout thankfulness;
"though I never really doubted it," she added, as though asking pardon
for a moment's distrust. "But I tried to write these poems to the glory
of God and not to my own praise, and He will accept them and keep me
humble under the praise of men as well as under their neglect."

So clutching the precious paper close to her breast, and letting tears
of thankfulness fall on the article, which, had they fallen on the
head of the junior reporter, would have burned like fire, she patiently
awaited the coming dawn.

"I can wait till the morning now to read the rest," she said.

So hour after hour, with her eyes wide, staring hard at the gray
window-squares, she waited the d