known that her work was well done, but she had not expected to be told of
it quite so frankly or emphatically.

She bowed, and murmured her thanks for his appreciation

"What do you want to do with it?" Mr. Knight asked.

"Get it published as a holiday souvenir, and make it pay me a handsome sum
for my trouble," Virgie responded, in a business-like tone, and then was
half-frightened at her own boldness.

The publisher's eyes twinkled with amusement.

"What would you consider a handsome sum?" he inquired.

Virgie thought a moment; then she replied:

"You have offered one, two, and three hundred dollars as prizes for the
simple souvenirs described in your advertisement, and surely a work like
this must be worth much more."

"Very true; but will you name some price for it? I confess that I should
like to take it, if you do not value it <i>too</i> highly."

Virgie was astonished at this.

She had not expected to be allowed to name her own price. She had
supposed, if her work was approved at all, to receive some moderate offer,
which she could accept or decline as she saw fit.

But she shrank from setting a value upon her work. It was her first
effort, and she had no more idea of its worth, as a work of art, than a
child.

"Sir," she returned, "I will tell you frankly that I never did anything of
the kind before; that is, I have never attempted to <i>dispose</i> of any of my
work and I do not know what it ought to bring me. I have been suddenly
thrown upon my own resources, and it occurred to me that I might turn my
one talent to some account."

"Your 'one talent' will prove a very valuable one, if rightly employed,"
interposed the publisher, smiling.

"Thank you," returned Virgie, flushing again. "And now, since my little
book pleases you, will you kindly make me an offer?"

"Well, Miss ---- What shall I call you, please? I like to know the names
of people with whom I am dealing," Mr. Knight observed, with a
business-like air.

A sudden shock went over Virgie, making her tingle to her finger-tips at
this question.

It was the first time that she had been asked to give her name since
coming to San Francisco.

She had lived so like a recluse that there had been no occasion, and she
had never decided what she would be called. She could not use her
husband's name.

If she had more time to think she might have answered the publisher
differently; but, as it was, she said, hastily, and not without some
co