possession, and it seemed to be fast going from her. Living in a
lantern soon loses its charm, and she was too old, too tired, and too
busy to like it. She felt that she had done all that could reasonably
be required of her when autographs, photographs, and autobiographical
sketches had been sown broadcast over the land; when artists had
taken her home in all its aspects, and reporters had taken her in the
grim one she always assumed on these trying occasions; when a series
of enthusiastic boarding-schools had ravaged her grounds for
trophies, and a steady stream of amiable pilgrims had worn her
doorsteps with their respectful feet; when servants left after a
week's trial of the bell that rang all day; when her husband was
forced to guard her at meals, and the boys to cover her retreat out
of back windows on certain occasions when enterprising guests walked
in unannounced at unfortunate moments.

A sketch of one day may perhaps explain the state of things, offer
some excuse for the unhappy woman, and give a hint to the
autograph-fiend now rampant in the land; for it is a true tale.

'There ought to be a law to protect unfortunate authors,' said Mrs Jo
one morning soon after Emil's arrival, when the mail brought her an
unusually large and varied assortment of letters. 'To me it is a more
vital subject than international copyright; for time is money, peace
is health, and I lose both with no return but less respect for my
fellow creatures and a wild desire to fly into the wilderness, since
I cannot shut my doors even in free America.'

'Lion-hunters are awful when in search of their prey. If they could
change places for a while it would do them good; and they'd see what
bores they were when they "do themselves the honour of calling to