er mind was on something else, and she had got
two stories mixed up and sent her manuscript without having looked it
over. She told this mishap to the Lady, as something she was dreadfully
ashamed of and could not possibly account for. It had cost her a sharp
note from the publisher, and would be as good as a dinner to some
half-starved Bohemian of the critical press.

The Lady listened to all this very thoughtfully, looking at her with
great tenderness, and said, "My poor child!" Not another word then, but
her silence meant a good deal.

When a man holds his tongue it does not signify much. But when a woman
dispenses with the office of that mighty member, when she sheathes her
natural weapon at a trying moment, it means that she trusts to still
more formidable enginery; to tears it may be, a solvent more powerful
than that with which Hannibal softened the Alpine rocks, or to the
heaving bosom, the sight of which has subdued so many stout natures,
or, it may be, to a sympathizing, quieting look which says "Peace, be
still!" to the winds and waves of the little inland ocean, in a language
that means more than speech.

While these matters were going on the Master and I had many talks on
many subjects. He had found me a pretty good listener, for I had learned
that the best way of getting at what was worth having from him was to
wind him up with a question and let him run down all of himself. It is
easy to turn a good talker into an insufferable bore by contradicting
him, and putting questions for him to stumble over,--that is, if he
is not a bore already, as "good talkers" are apt to be, except now and
then.

We had been discussing some knotty points one morning when he said all
at once:

--Come into my library with me. I want to read you some new passages
from an interleaved copy of my book. You haven't read the printed part
yet. I gave you a copy of it, but nobody reads a book that is given to
him. Of course not. Nobody but a fool expects him to. He reads a little
in it here and there, perhaps, and he cuts all the leaves if he cares
enough about the writer, who will be sure to call on him some day, and
if he is left alone in his library for five minutes will have hunted
every corner of it until he has found the book he sent,--if it is to be
found at all, which does n't always happen, if there's a penal colony
anywhere in a garret or closet for typographical offenders and vagrants.

--What do you do when you receiv