et warm in the meantime," said Charles
Osmond, establishing himself by the fire.

There was a silence broken only by the sound of Erica's pen as she
crossed out a word or a line. Charles Osmond watched her and mused. This
beautiful girl, whose development he could trace now for more than two
years back, what would she grow into? Already she was writing in the
"Idol Breaker." He regretted it. Yet it was obviously the most natural
employment for her. He looked at her ever-changing face. She was
absorbed in her work, her expression varying with the sentences she
read; now there was a look of triumphant happiness as she came
to something which made her heart beat quickly; again, a shade of
dissatisfaction at the consciousness of her inability to express what
was in her mind. He could not help thinking that it was one of the
noblest faces he had ever seen, and now that the eyes were downcast it
was not so terribly sad; there was, moreover, for the first time since
her mother's death, a faint tinge of color in her cheeks. Before five
minutes could have passed, the bell rang again.

"That is my boy," she exclaimed, and hastily blotting her sheets, she
rolled them up, gave them to the servant, closed her desk, and crossing
the room, knelt down in front of the fire to warm her hands, which were
stiff and chilly.

"How rude I have been to you," she said, smiling a little; "I always
have been rude to you since the very first time we met."

"We were always frank with each other," said Charles Osmond; "I remember
you gave me your opinion as to bigots and Christians in the most
delightfully open way. So you have been writing your first article?"

"Yes," and she stretched herself as though she were rather tired and
cramped. "I have had a delicious afternoon. Yesterday I was in despair
about it, but today it just came--I wrote it straight off."

"And you are satisfied with it?"

"Satisfied? Oh, no! Is anybody ever satisfied? By the time it is in
print I shall want to alter every sixth line. Still, I dare say it will
say a little of what I want said?"

"Oh, you do want something said?"

"Of course!" she replied, a little indignantly. "If not, how could I
write."

"I quite agree with you," said Charles Osmond, "and you mean to take
this up as your vocation?"

"If I am thought worthy," said Erica, coloring a little.

"I see you have high ideas of the art," said Charles Osmond; "and what
is your reason for taking it up?"