d I had happened to
love them, but I fancied Fides.

But now since I have scared you sufficiently, let me add for your peace
of mind that I've not enough money to back any horses just at present,
and before I put any money up on any one of them for the Matrimonial
stakes, I will ask you first to look over the card and give me a few
pointers. I mayn't follow them, you know, but I'll give you a fair
warning, at any rate.

"You're my sweetheart, I'm your beau."

DICK.

NEW YORK, May 29, 1890.

This is just a little good night note to say how I wish I was with you
down at that dear old place and how much I love you and Nora who is
getting lovelier and sweeter and prettier everyday and I know a pretty
girl when I see 'em, Fides, for instance. But I won't tease you about
that any more.

I finished a short silly story to night which I am in doubt whether to
send off or not. I think I will keep it until I read it to you and
learn what you think.

Mr. Gilder has asked me to stay with them at Marion, and to go to
Cambridge with Mrs. Gilder and dear Mrs. Cleveland and Grover
Cleveland, when he reads the poem before D. K. E.

I have bought a book on decorations, colored, and I am choosing what I
want, like a boy with a new pair of boots.

Good-night, my dearest Mama.

DICK.

In addition to his regular work on The Evening Sun, my brother, as I
have already said, was devoting a great part, of his leisure moments to
the writing of short stories, and had made a tentative agreement with a
well-known magazine to do a series of short sketches of New York types.
Evidently fearful that Richard was writing too much and with a view to
pecuniary gain, my mother wrote the following note of warning:

PHILADELPHIA, 1890.

DEAR DICK:

I wouldn't undertake the "types." For one thing, you will lose
prestige writing for ----'s paper. For another, I dread beyond
everything your beginning to do hack work for money. It is the
beginning of decadence both in work and reputation for you. I know by
my own and a thousand other people. Begin to write because it "is a
lot of money" and you stop doing your best work. You make your work
common and your prices will soon go down. George Lewes managed George
Eliot wisely.

He stopped her hack work. Kept her at writing novels and soon one each
year brought her $40,000. I am taking a purely mercenary view of the
thing. There is another which you understand better than I-- Mind