ing that suggested itself was
the possibility of finding some other business. But, apart from the
difficulty of immediately obtaining remunerative work in occupations to
which I had not been trained, I felt a great and natural reluctance to
give up a profession for which I had carefully prepared myself, and
which I had adopted as my life-work. It would be very hard for me to
lay down my pen forever, and to close the top of my inkstand upon all
the bright and happy fancies which I had seen mirrored in its tranquil
pool. We talked and pondered the rest of that day and a good deal of
the night, but we came to no conclusion as to what it would be best for
us to do.

The next day I determined to go and call upon the editor of the journal
for which, in happier days, before the blight of "His Wife's Deceased
Sister" rested upon me, I used most frequently to write, and, having
frankly explained my condition to him, to ask his advice. The editor
was a good man, and had always been my friend. He listened with great
attention to what I told him, and evidently sympathized with me in my
trouble.

"As we have written to you," he said, "the only reason why we did not
accept the manuscripts you sent us was that they would have
disappointed the high hopes that the public had formed in regard to
you. We have had letter after letter asking when we were going to
publish another story like `His Wife's Deceased Sister.' We felt, and
we still feel, that it would be wrong to allow you to destroy the fair
fabric which you yourself have raised. But," he added, with a kind
smile, "I see very plainly that your well-deserved reputation will be
of little advantage to you if you should starve at the moment that its
genial beams are, so to speak, lighting you up."

"Its beams are not genial," I answered. "They have scorched and
withered me."

"How would you like," said the editor, after a short reflection, "to
allow us to publish the stories you have recently written under some
other name than your own? That would satisfy us and the public, would
put money in your pocket, and would not interfere with your reputation."

Joyfully I seized the noble fellow by the hand, and instantly accepted
his proposition. "Of course," said I, "a reputation is a very good
thing; but no reputation can take the place of food, clothes, and a
house to live in, and I gladly agree to sink my over-illumined name
into oblivion, and to appear before the public