'Send a civil refusal, dear. All I have to give must go to feed and
clothe the poor at my gates. That is my thank-offering for success.
Go on,' answered his mother, with a grateful glance about her happy
home.

'A literary youth of eighteen proposes that you put your name to a
novel he has written; and after the first edition your name is to be
taken off and his put on. There's a cool proposal for you. I guess
you won't agree to that, in spite of your soft-heartedness towards
most of the young scribblers.'

'Couldn't be done. Tell him so kindly, and don't let him send the
manuscript. I have seven on hand now, and barely time to read my
own,' said Mrs Jo, pensively fishing a small letter out of the
slop-bowl and opening it with care, because the down-hill address
suggested that a child wrote it.

'I will answer this myself. A little sick girl wants a book, and she
shall have it, but I can't write sequels to all the rest to please
her. I should never come to an end if I tried to suit these voracious
little Oliver Twists, clamouring for more. What next, Robin?'

'This is short and sweet.

'DEAR MRS BHAER, I am now going to give you my opinion of
your works. I have read them all many times, and call them
first-rate. Please go ahead.