reading, but her eyes were not upon it.

"I wonder!" she said, half aloud--then paused.

The thought in her mind was too daring for utterance. She was
picturing the possibility of going quietly away from Briar Farm
all alone, and trying to make a name and career for herself
through the one natural gift she fancied she might possess, a gift
which nowadays is considered almost as common as it was once
admired and rare. To be a poet and romancist,--a weaver of
wonderful thoughts into musical language,--this seemed to her the
highest of all attainment; the proudest emperor of the most
powerful nation on earth was, to her mind, far less than
Shakespeare,--and inferior to the simplest French lyrist of old
time that ever wrote a "chanson d'amour." But the doubt in her
mind was whether she, personally, had any thoughts worth
expressing,--any ideas which the world might be the happier or the
better for knowing and sharing? She drew a long breath,--the warm
colour flushed her cheeks and then faded, leaving her very pale,--
the whole outlook of her life was so barren of hope or promise
that she dared not indulge in any dream of brighter days. On the
face of it, there seemed no possible chance of leaving Briar Farm
without some outside assistance--she had no money, and no means of
obtaining any. Then,--even supposing she could get to London, she
knew no one there,--she had no friends. Sighing wearily, she
opened a deep drawer in the table at which she sat, and took out a
manuscript--every page of it so neatly written as to be almost
like copper-plate--and set herself to reading it steadily. There
were enough written sheets to make a good-sized printed volume--
and she read on for more than an hour. When she lifted her eyes at