rn
disciplinarian in those days."

"Well maybe I was--but I didn't realize it."

My first understanding of the depths this serial sounded came to me in
the letters which were written to the editor by those who could not find
words in which to express their longing for the bright world gone--the
world when they were young and glad. "You have written my life," each
one said--and by this they meant that the facts of my family history,
and my own emotional experiences were so nearly theirs that my lines
awoke an almost intolerable regret in their hearts--an ache which is in
my own heart to-day--the world-old hunger of the gray-haired man
dwelling upon the hope and illusions of youth.

These responses which indicated a wider and more lasting effect than I
had hoped to produce, led me to plan for the publication of the book
close on the heels of the concluding installment of the serial but in
this I was disappointed. The Mexican war suddenly thrust new and
tremendously exciting news articles into the magazine, separating and
delaying the printing of my story. Had it not been for the loyalty of
Mark Sullivan it would have been completely side-tracked, but he would
not have it so; on the contrary he began to talk with me about printing
six more installments, and this necessarily put off the question of
finding a publisher for the book.

Nevertheless I returned to my desk in the expectation that the Mexican
excitement was only a flurry and that the magazine would be able to
complete the publication of the manuscript within the year. My harvest
was not destroyed; it was only delayed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A Spray of Wild Roses

Although for several years my wife and children had spent four months of
each year in West Salem, and notwithstanding the fact that my father was
free to come down to visit us at any time, I suffered a feeling of
uneasiness (almost of guilt), whenever I thought of him camping alone
for the larger part of the year in that big, silent house. His love for
the children and for Zulime made every day of his lonely life a reproach
to me, and yet there seemed no way in which I could justly grant him
more of our time. The welfare of my wife and the education of the
children must be considered.

He was nearing his eighty-fourth birthday, and a realization that every
week in which he did not see his granddaughters was an irreparable loss,
gave me uneasiness. It was a comfort to think of him sitting i