hought, the
more determined she grew to investigate this strange affair, and within
an hour she had donned her street clothes and started, without saying
anything to the rest of the household of her intention, for the office
of Cutt & Slashem in the city.

She knew that each large concern had one or more "readers," on whose
judgment they relied in such matters. She, therefore, paused only long
enough at the counting-room to get directed to Mr. Gouger. Her knock on
the critic's door brought forth a loud "Come in," and as she entered she
saw two men standing with hats in their hand, as if about to take their
departure.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "but I wish to see Mr. Gouger."

"That is my name," responded one of the men, stepping forward.

"I am Miss Fern."

Mr. Gouger did not seem very glad to hear it. The hour of one had just
struck, and he was about to go to his lunch. He recognized the girl's
name, as that of the author of the MSS. he had criticized so severely to
his friend, Weil, who was, by-the-way, the third person in the room at
this moment. Had she sent up her card, as is usual with women, he would
have avoided seeing her at any hazard.

Mr. Weil took a long survey of the young lady, and then retired to the
vicinity of the front windows. He pretended to interest himself in the
rush of traffic that was going on in the street below, but he missed
nothing of what was said, and stole from time to time a glance at his
two companions, particularly the younger one.

"A mighty pretty girl," was his mental comment. "I hope Lawrence isn't
going to be nasty with her."

Mr. Gouger motioned Miss Fern rather stiffly to a seat.

"I do not wish to detain you," she said, with feminine inconsistency, as
she accepted it. "I only want to know, if you will be so kind as to tell
me, what is the trouble with my story."

The critic was pleased at one thing. Miss Fern's voice was reasonably
clear. She had finished her weeping at home. There was to be no scene,
something he dreaded, and in the course of his connection with this
house he had experienced scores of them. He inspected his caller
critically in the few seconds that elapsed while she was asking this
question, and when she paused he decided to answer her with as much of
the truth as he dared use.

"The fact is," he began, "a firm like ours is unable to use more than
one novel out of fifty that is submitted to it. Of our friends who send
us manuscripts, the va