smoothly oiled machinery of our domestic felicity, but I
immediately sent the story to another editor. I am not able to
express the astonishment I felt when, in the course of a week, it
was sent back to me. The tone of the note accompanying it
indicated a somewhat injured feeling on the part of the editor.


"I am reluctant," he said, "to decline a manuscript from you;
but you know very well that if you sent me anything like `His
Wife's Deceased Sister' it would be most promptly accepted."

I now felt obliged to speak of the affair to my wife, who was
quite as much surprised, though, perhaps, not quite as much
shocked, as I had been.

"Let us read the story again," she said, "and see what is the
matter with it." When we had finished its perusal, Hypatia
remarked: "It is quite as good as many of the stories you have
had printed, and I think it very interesting, although, of
course, it is not equal to `His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"

"Of course not," said I; "that was an inspiration that I
cannot expect every day. But there must be something wrong about
this last story which we do not perceive. Perhaps my recent
success may have made me a little careless in writing it."

"I don't believe that," said Hypatia.

"At any rate," I continued, "I will lay it aside, and will go
to work on a new one."