At last, when she calmed down sufficiently to be
capable of connected thought, she saw that "mountaineering" implied
the hire of guides, and that "society" meant frocks. Of course it was
intended that she should spend the whole of the money, and thus give
"The Firefly" a fair return for its outlay. And a rapid calculation
revealed the dazzling fact that after setting aside the fabulous sum
of two pounds a day for expenses she still had forty pounds left
wherewith to replenish her scanty stock of dresses.

Believing that at any instant the letter might dissolve into a curt
request to keep her scientific jottings strictly within the limits
of a column, Helen sat with it lying open on her lap, and searched the
pages of a tattered guidebook for particulars of the Upper Engadine.
She had read every line before; but the words now seemed to live.
St. Moritz, Pontresina, Sils-Maria, Silvaplana,--they ceased to be
mere names,--they became actualities. The Julier Pass, the Septimer,
the Forno Glacier, the Diavolezza Route, and the rest of the
stately panorama of snow capped peaks, blue lakes, and narrow
valleys,--valleys which began with picturesque chalets, dun colored
cattle, and herb laden pastures, and ended in the yawning mouths of
ice rivers whence issued the milky white streams that dashed through
the lower gorges,--they passed before her eyes as she read till she
was dazzled by their glories.

What a day dream to one who dwelt in smoky London year in and year
out! What an experience to look forward to! What memories to treasure!
Nor was she blind to the effect of the undertaking on her future.
Though "The Firefly" was not an important paper, though its editor was
of a half-forgotten day and generation, she would now have good work
to show when asked what she had done. She was not enamored of beetles.
Even the classifying of them was monotonous, and she had striven
bravely to push her way through the throng of would-be writers that
besieged the doors of every popular periodical in London. It was a
heartbreaking struggle. The same post that gave her this epoch marking
letter had brought back two stories with the stereotyped expression of
editorial regret.

"Now," thought Helen, when her glance fell on the bulky envelops, "my
name will at least become known. And editors very much resemble the
public they cater for. If a writer achieves success, they all want
him. I have often marveled how any author got his first chance.