e said, holding her hand out with her
most pleasant smile. "My brother told me your name; now where will you
sit, do you like a low chair? try this one. It is kind of you to look us
up so early."

Miss Bibby sat down still struggling with her agitation.

"I," she said--"I--not a visit--should not presume--an author's time--I
came simply to ask a favour of you--so great a favour I--simply feel now
I am actually here that it is impossible to ask it."

"Well, you must think better of that feeling, for I really love any one
to ask me a favour. I believe all stout people are the same, a little
weakness of the flesh, you know"; and Miss Kinross gave her visitor a
smile so winning, so encouraging, that Miss Bibby's heart began to beat
in its normal fashion again.

"But first," continued Miss Kinross, "we will have some tea. Now don't
say you have had yours, if there is one thing I dislike it is drinking
my afternoon tea in solitary state."

No, Miss Bibby had not had tea; Thomas's letter and the Serenade
together had put even her severe afternoon drink of plain cold water out
of her head.

But when Miss Kinross made a favour of it like that, how could she
refuse to receive a cup when the maid carried out the tray?

"Yes," she said to the query about sugar, and "Yes" to milk. And "Yes,
fairly strong," when asked how she liked it. No one would have dreamed
it was more than six years since her last cup.

Possibly it was the unaccustomed stimulant that loosened her tongue;
possibly it was the warm womanly sympathy that shone in her hostess's
brown eyes--eyes that had made more than one person declare that Kate
Kinross was absolutely beautiful, despite her avoirdupois. At any rate,
Miss Bibby found herself pouring out all the story of her thwarted life,
all the long tragedy of the seven declined novels in the trunk across
the road.

Miss Kinross gave eager sympathy. That was nothing, nothing; many
authors now famous had been declined again and again.

"Seven times?" asked Miss Bibby, with gentle mournfulness.

"Certainly," said Miss Kinross stoutly. "Why, look at Hugh, it is his
favourite boast that there isn't a publisher in England who has not
refused him at one time or another; nor one who wouldn't be glad to
accept him to-day."

"Mr. Kinross--refused!" echoed Miss Bibby. Her world seemed in need of
reconstruction for a minute. Then a strange warmth and comfort gathered
about her poor heart. This made the author l