nd
straightaway forgot the whole matter. She came within the range of
mother's understanding, I did not; she had feelings, mother thought, I
had none. Did my mother understand me, she would know that I am capable
of more depths of agony and more exquisite heights of joy in one day than
Gertie will experience in her whole life.

Was I mad as mother had said? A fear took possession of me that I might
be. I certainly was utterly different to any girl I had seen or known.
What was the hot wild spirit which surged within me? Ah, that I might
weep! I threw myself on my bed and moaned. Why was I not like other
girls? Why was I not like Gertie? Why were not a new dress, everyday
work, and an occasional picnic sufficient to fill my mind? My movements
awakened Gertie.

"What is the matter, dear Sybylla? Come to bed. Mother has been scolding
you. She is always scolding some one. That doesn't matter. You say you
are sorry, and she won't scold any more. That's what I always do. Do get
into bed. You'll be tired in the morning."

"What does it matter if I will be. I wish I would be dead. What's the
good of a hateful thing like I am being alive. No one wants or cares for
me."

"I love you, Sybylla, better than all the rest. I could not do without
you," and she put her pretty face to mine and kissed me.

What a balm to the tempest-tossed soul is a little love, though it may be
fleeting and fickle! I was able to weep now, with wild hot tears, and
with my sister's arms around me I fell asleep without undressing further.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Was E'er a Rose Without Its Thorn?

I arose from bed next morning with three things in my head--a pair of
swollen eyes, a heavy pain, and a fixed determination to write a book.
Nothing less than a book. A few hours' work in the keen air of a late
autumn morning removed the swelling from my eyes and the pain from my
temples, but the idea of relieving my feelings in writing had taken firm
root in my brain. It was not my first attempt in this direction. Two
years previously I had purloined paper and sneaked out of bed every night
at one or two o'clock to write a prodigious novel in point of length and
detail, in which a full-fledged hero and heroine performed the duties of
a hero and heroine in the orthodox manner. Knowing our circumstances, my
grandmother was accustomed, when writing to me, to enclose a stamp to
enable me to reply. These I saved, and with them sent my book to the
leading