imes, since
the rhyme that began her fortune. Mr. Stalworth says they are
stamped with her own name, every one; breezy, and freshly delicious.
For that very reason, of course, people will not believe, when they
see the name in print, that it is a real name. It is so much easier
to believe in little tricks of invention, than in things that simply
come to pass by a wonderful, beautiful determination, because they
belong so. They think the poem is a trick of invention, too. They
think that of almost everything that they see in print. Their
incredulity is marvelously credulous! There is no end to that which
mortals may contrive; but the limit is such a measurable one to that
which can really be! We slip our human leash so easily, and get
outside of all creation, and the "Divinity that shapes our ends," to
shape and to create, ourselves!

For my part, the more stories I write out, the more I learn how,
even in fiction, things happen and take relation according to some
hidden reality; that we have only to stand by, and see the shiftings
and combinings, and with what care and honesty we may, to put them
down.

If there is anything in this story that you cannot credit,--if you
cannot believe in such a relation, and such a friendship, and such a
mutual service, as Asenath Scherman's and Bel Bree's,--if you cannot
believe that Bel Bree may at this moment be ironing Mrs. Scherman's
damask table-cloths, and as the ivy leaf or morning-glory pattern
comes out under the polish, some beautiful thought in her takes line
and shade under the very rub of labor, and shows itself as it would
have done no other way, and that by and by it will shine on a
printed page, made substantive in words,--then, perhaps, you have
only not lived quite long--or deep--enough. There is a more real and
perfect architecture than any that has ever got worked out in stone,
or even sketched on paper.

Neither Boston, nor the world, is "finished" yet. There may be many
a burning and rebuilding, first. Meanwhile, we will tell what we can
see.

And that word sends me back to Bel herself, of whom this present
seeing and telling can read and recite no further.

Are you dissatisfied to leave her here? Is it a pity, you think,
that the little glimmer of romance in Leicester Place meant nothing,
after all? There are blind turns in the labyrinth of life. Would you
have our Bel lost in a blind turn?

The _right and the wrong_ settled it, as they settle all things.