that she would be too elated by it; he feared a dozen different things in
as many minutes, as he sat turning the check over and over in his hands.
But his fears were all unfounded. Mercy had too genuine an artistic nature
to be elated, too much simplicity to be offended. Her first emotion was
one of incredulity; her second, of unaffected and humble wonder that any
verses of hers should have been so well spoken of; and her next, of
childlike glee at the possibility of her earning any money. She had not a
trace of the false pride which had crystallized in her mother's nature
into such a barrier against the idea of a paid industry.

"O Mr. Allen!" she exclaimed, "is it really possible? Do you think the
verses were really worth it? Are you quite sure the editor did not send
the money because the verses were written by a friend of yours?"

Harley Allen laughed.

"Editors are not at all likely, Mercy," he said, "to pay any more for
things than the things are worth. I think you will some day laugh
heartily, as you look back upon the misgivings with which you received the
first money earned by your pen. If you will only work faithfully and
painstakingly, you can do work which will be much better paid than this."

Mercy's eyes flashed.

"Oh! oh! Then I can have books and pictures, and take journeys," she said
in a tone of such ecstasy that Mr. Allen was surprised.

"Why, Mercy," he replied, "I did not know you were such a discontented
girl. Have you always longed for all these things?"