e which our poor dear Jasmine has had. You know how
very anxious she has been to see herself in print. Of course, I could
not conscientiously encourage her, for although she may have talent
(this I am not prepared to say), yet she is a great deal too young to
have anything printed. All books worth anything should teach, and
surely our dear little girl is only at the age to be taught herself.

"Well, Primrose, the little maid was fired with the strongest
ambition. She wrote her novel in secret, and one day, accompanied by
that good-natured Poppy Jenkins and sweet little Daisy, went
Citywards, and simply plunged--for I can use no other word--into the
unknown and to me rather awful realm of publishers.

"Poor child, of course none of the good houses would even look at her
immature productions; but she was taken in by a man who professed
himself to be the editor of a monthly paper--_The Joy-bell_ was its
silly title. On an understanding that her story was to be printed in
the pages of _The Joy-bell_--of course I've never seen the paper, and
should not dream of reading anything so rubbishy--poor Jasmine was
induced to subscribe two pounds five shillings, or, in other words, to
undertake to buy one hundred copies of _The Joy-bell_. Of course she
imagined that her printed words would immediately bring her fame. She
paid her money, and looked out for her story."

"Where did she get the money from?" thought the anxious reader.

"Primrose, how wrinkled up your brows are;" called out little Daisy.

Primrose sighed, and resumed her perusal of the closely-written
sheets.

"On the very evening our little Daisy ran away Jasmine received her
first proofs. They were barbarously printed on wretched paper, but the
poor child was in such trouble then that she scarcely noticed them.
Afterwards she did read them with care, and was surprised to find what
a very small portion of her story had been printed.

"You know that I was unexpectedly detained in the country by the
serious illness and death of my poor cousin. Jasmine was not doing as
well as we supposed by her profession of dressing dinner-tables. The
dear child was determined not to ask help from any one, not even from
you, Primrose, and she made a valiant effort to support herself on her
tiny earnings. Alas, her purse was all too soon emptied, and she had
also upon her the awful load of debt, for Poppy Jenkins it seems, lent
her the money to get that rubbishy story published. In