hat would be in keeping with what rests
beneath? You can--I know you can--and that is why I have decided to
withdraw what appeared to be my final answer of this afternoon, and, if
you want it, to give you another chance.

"_If_ I want it!" ejaculated Van Buren. "Lord knows how I want it!"

Come to me at the end of a year and show me the record of something
accomplished, that lifts you out this awful social rut we have all
managed to get into, and my "no" of this afternoon may be turned into a
"yes," and the misery of my heart be turned to joy. Of course you will
say that it is all very easy for me to write this, and to tell you to
go out and do something, but that the hard thing would be to tell you
what to go out and do--and you will be perfectly right. General advice
is the easiest thing in the world, but the specific, constructive
suggestion is very different. So I will give you the specific
suggestion, and it is this: Why do you not write a novel? You used in
your days at Harvard to write clever skits for the "Lampoon," and one
or two of your little stories in the "Advocate" showed that you at
least know how to put words and sentences together in a pleasing way,
even if the themes of your stories were slight and the plots not very
intricate. Do this, Harry. Surely with your experience in life you
can think of something to write about. Apply yourself to this work
during the coming year, and when your book is published and has proven
a success, come to me again, and maybe I shall have some good news to
tell you.

It may be, dear Harry, that you will not think it worth while. For
myself, I hardly think the prize is worth the winning, but you seem to
feel differently about that, if I may judge from what you said this
afternoon, and you did seem to mean it all, every word of it, you poor
boy.

We shall meet, of course, as frequently as ever, but until the year is
up, and that a year of achievement, you must not speak of the matter
again, and must regard me as I shall hope in any event always to remain,

Your devoted friend,
ETHEL TOOKER.

Van Buren laughed nervously, as he finished the letter, and again lit
his pipe, which had gone out while he read.

"Write a novel, eh?" he muttered with a grin. "A nice, easy task that.
A hundred and fifty thousand words, all meaning something. Ah me! Why
the dickens wasn't I born in an age when knighthood was in flower and
my Lady Fayre set Sir Hubert some