words as possible).

"Now, William, listen patiently to me," I said. "An artist lies
under this great disadvantage in case of accidents--his talents
are of no service to him unless he can use his eyes and fingers.
An author, on the other hand, can turn his talents to account
just as well by means of other people's eyes and fingers as by
means of his own. In your present situation, therefore, you have
nothing for it, as I said before, but to turn author. Wait! and
hear me out. The book I want you to make is a book of all your
stories. You shall repeat them, and I will write them down from
your dictation. Our manuscript shall be printed; we will sell the
book to the public, and so support ourselves honorably in
adversity, by doing the best we can to interest and amuse
others."

While I was saying all this--I suppose in a very excitable
manner--my husband looked, as our young sailor-friend would
phrase it, quite _taken aback._ "You were always quick at
contriving, Leah," he said; "but how in the world came you to
think of this plan?"

"I thought of it while you were telling them the gambling-house
adventure downstairs," I answered.

"It is an ingenious idea, and a bold idea," he went on,
thoughtfully. "But it is one thing to tell a story to a circle of
friends, and another thing to put it into a printed form for an
audience of strangers. Consider, my dear, that we are neither of
us used to what is called writing for the press."