ew better judges than Jamieson, and his estimate of
the "Land o' Love" leaves me rather blue. I have been so anxious to make
money in order to be able to help in the improvement of those repaired
vocal chords of Frances and start her on the way towards the success I
believe is in store for her, that I feel as if the impending failure of
my novel were a vicious blow of fate directed against her. Why was I
ever impelled to leave aside some of the conventions of my trade, to
abandon the path I have hitherto trodden in safety? One or two
multimillionaires may have been able to condemn the public to perdition,
but a struggling author might as safely, in broad daylight, throw
snowballs at a chief of police. Before I go any further I must carefully
read over the seven or eight score pages I have already done for the
successor of "Land o' Love," and find out whether I am not drifting into
too iconoclastic a way of writing.

With my head full of such disquieting thoughts I walked home. As I
turned the corner of my street, I saw Frances, a good way ahead of me.
She was doubtless returning from Gordon's studio. Her darling little
bundle was in her arms and she hurried along, very fast.

"Baby Paul must be hungry," I decided, "and she will run up the stairs.
No use hastening after her, for her door will be closed. Frieda will
soon come in, and we shall all go over to Camus, as we arranged last
evening."

Once in my room I took up my manuscript and began to study it, trying to
disguise myself under the skin of the severest critic. I started, with a
frown, to read the lines, in a manner that was an excellent imitation of
a grumpy teacher I remembered, who used to read our poor little essays
as if they had been documents convicting us of manslaughter, to say the
very least. And yet, so hopelessly vacillating is my nature that I had
read but half a chapter before I was figuratively patting myself on the
back, in egotistic approval of my own work. I continued, changing a word
here and there and dreamily repeating some sentences, the better to
judge of their effectiveness, until there was a knock at my door and
Frieda came in, looking scared.

"See here, Dave, I've just been in to see Frances. She's come back with
a dreadful headache and can't go out to dinner with us. I asked if I
could make her a cup of tea and she wouldn't hear of it. The room is all
dark and she's lying on the bed."

"I'll go out at once and get Dr. Porter!" I e