"Ah, but you see, these are only fragments," he said, sadly, regaining
his composure. "Suppose I am never able to weave them properly into the
plot? You cannot know how discouraged I am sometimes."

"Will you not let me send them?" I asked eagerly. "It is quite true that
they are only fragments, but no one could write such things and then
fail of success in elaborating; it is impossible. Come, let us go, it is
nearly dinner-time," I went on, not giving him time to speak, as I began
gathering up the books and rugs. "No, do not talk of my book; it is
over. It was only a fancy of mine. I ought to have known I could not
really write, and it came to me clearly this morning--so clearly! If you
will let me be godmother to yours, that will be a little consolation," I
said laughing, and having now his consent to send his MSS. to Mr. ----,
I hurried him homeward, talking gaily of indifferent topics, and
avoiding the tender, questioning eyes that sought my own.

That there was bitterness in the realization that I had miserably
failed, that my novel was stupid and lacked the elements of interest, I
cannot deny. Why I had not seen it all before, I can never understand,
but this morning, as I compared it with the brilliant and strange play
of fancy that characterized Mr. Longworth's work, I felt it keenly and
conclusively. In the long afternoon hours I spent that day alone with my
manuscript, I learned to face calmly the fact that I must go back to
newspaper work without the vestige of a hope that I should ever write a
readable novel. What it meant to me to arrive at this conclusion no one
will understand who has not had the same hopes and the same downfall,
yet through those hours in the little white-washed bed-room, with the
locust boughs tapping against the window, the memory that I strenuously
put away of that warm clasp, of the new tenderness in the voice that had
called me by my name, softened the sharp pangs of disappointment; and