les shattered, with the knowledge that to him literature was a
pastime, while to me it meant livelihood, I gloried more in his success
than I should in my own, that I was glad that he, and not I, was to have
fame; and in the tumult of new emotions against which I struggled, my
lip quivered, I turned aside my head, and felt, but I did not see, the
hand that touched mine, thrilling me so that I drew away.

"Miss Marriott--Kate--"

"No, no," I cried, facing him with my cheeks crimson, and speaking
rapidly, "I want you to let me send a few pages for a reading to Mr.
----, the editor of ----'s Magazine; he is a friend of mine; he has been
so good to me. You say you have no publisher in view. I am certain he
will take this when it is finished, and you know what that means; it
will make your reputation, and--"

"Ah, but you see, these are only fragments," he said, sadly, regaining
his composure. "Suppose I am never able to weave them properly into the
plot? You cannot know how discouraged I am sometimes."

"Will you not let me send them?" I asked eagerly. "It is quite true that
they are only fragments, but no one could write such things and then
fail of success in elaborating; it is impossible. Come, let us go, it is
nearly dinner-time," I went on, not giving him time to speak, as I began
gathering up the books and rugs. "No, do not talk of my book; it is
over. It was only a fancy of mine. I ought to have known I could not
really write, and it came to me clearly this morning--so clearly! If you
will let me be godmother to yours, that will be a little consolation," I
said laughing, and having now his consent to send his MSS. to Mr. ----,
I hurried him homeward, talking gaily of indifferent topics, and
avoiding the tender, questioning eyes that sought my own.

That there was bitterness in the realization that I had miserably
failed, that my novel was stupid and lacked the elements of interest, I
cannot deny. Why I had not seen it all before, I can never understand,
but this morning, as I compared it with the brilliant and strange play
of fancy that characterized Mr. Longworth's work, I felt it keenly and
conclusively. In the long afternoon hours I spent that day alone with my
manuscript, I learned to face calmly the fact that I must go back to
newspaper work without the vestige of a hope that I should ever write a
readable novel. What it meant to me to arrive at this conclusion no one
will understand who has not had the same