,--as I probably did, for, recovering from a kind of
swoon, I found myself shivering with cold. The next day I brought my
work to a conclusion.

But the task of revision still remained; for an hour or two I shrank from
it, and remained gazing stupidly at the pile of paper which I had written
over. I was all but exhausted, and I dreaded, on inspecting the sheets,
to find them full of absurdities which I had paid no regard to in the
furor of composition. But the task, however trying to my nerves, must be
got over; at last, in a kind of desperation, I entered upon it. It was
far from an easy one; there were, however, fewer errors and absurdities
than I had anticipated. About twelve o'clock at night I had got over the
task of revision. "To-morrow, for the bookseller," said I, as my hand
sank on the pillow. "Oh me!"

CHAPTER LVII.

Nervous Look--The Bookseller's Wife--The Last Stake--Terms--God
Forbid!--Will You Come to Tea?--A Light Heart.

On arriving at the bookseller's shop, I cast a nervous look at the
window, for the purpose of observing whether the paper had been removed
or not. To my great delight the paper was in its place; with a beating
heart I entered, there was nobody in the shop; as I stood at the counter,
however, deliberating whether or not I should call out, the door of what
seemed to be a back-parlour opened, and out came a well-dressed lady-like
female, of about thirty, with a good-looking and intelligent countenance.
"What is your business, young man?" said she to me, after I had made her
a polite bow. "I wish to speak to the gentleman of the house," said I.
"My husband is not within at present," she replied; "what is your
business?" "I have merely brought something to show him," said I, "but I
will call again." "If you are the young gentleman who has been here
before," said the lady, "with poems and ballads, as, indeed, I know you
are," she added, smiling, "for I have seen you through the glass door, I
am afraid it will be useless; that is," she added with another smile, "if
you bring us nothing else." "I have not brought you poems and ballads
now," said I, "but something widely different; I saw your advertisement
for a tale or a novel, and have written something which I think will
suit; and here it is," I added, showing the roll of paper which I held in
my hand. "Well," said the bookseller's wife, "you may leave it, though I
cannot promise you much chance of its being accepted.