r people who had never hoped before--and who has lived to see
his dream come true; and the great dreamer smiled and said:

"G. G., if growing boys are good boys and do what they are told, and
have any luck at all--they always get well!"

Then G. G. blushed.

"And when I am well can I live where I please--and--and get
married--and all that sort of thing?"

"You can live where you please, marry and have children; and if you
aren't a good husband and a good father I dare say you'll live to be
hanged at ninety. But if I were you, G. G., I'd stick by the Adirondacks
until you're old enough to--know better."

And G. G. went back to his rooms in great glee and typewrote a story
that he had finished as well as he could, and sent it to a magazine. And
six days later it came back to him, with a little note from the editor,
who said:

"There's nothing wrong with your story except youth. If you say so we'll
print it. We like it. But, personally, and believing that I have your
best interests at heart, I advise you to wait, to throw this story into
your scrap basket, and to study and to labor until your mind and your
talent are mature. For the rest, I think you are going to do some fine
things. This present story isn't that--it's not fine. At the same time,
it is so very good in some ways that we are willing to leave its
publication or its destruction to your discretion."

G. G. threw his story into the scrap basket and went to bed with a
brand-new notion of editors.

"Why," said he to the cold darkness--and his voice was full of awe and
astonishment--"they're--alive!"

III

Cynthia couldn't get at G. G. and she made up her mind that she must get
at something that belonged to him--or die. She had his letter, of
course, and his kodaks; and these spoke the most eloquent language to
her--no matter what they said or how they looked--but she wanted somehow
or other to worm herself deeper into G. G.'s life. To find somebody, for
instance, who knew all about him and would enjoy talking about him by
the hour. Now there are never but two people who enjoy sitting by the
hour and saying nice things about any man--and these, of course, are the
woman who bore him and the woman who loves him. Fathers like their sons
well enough--sometimes--and will sometimes talk about them and praise
them; but not always. So it seemed to Cynthia that the one and only
thing worth doing, under the circumstances, was to make friends with G.
G.'s mothe