"rushed" at it, and equally "rushed" at HER, lifting her, as it
were, on their shoulders and bearing her aloft, against her own
desire, above the seething tide of fashion and frivolity as though
she were a queen of many kingdoms, crowned with victory. And again
the old journalist, John Harrington, sought an audience of her,
and this time was not refused. She received him in Miss Leigh's
little drawing-room, holding out both her hands to him in cordial
welcome, with a smile frank and sincere enough to show him at a
glance that her "celebrity" had left her unscathed. She was still
the same simple child-like soul, wearing the mystical halo of
spiritual dreams rather than the brazen baldric of material
prosperity--and he, bitterly seasoned in the hardest ways of
humanity, felt a thrill of compassion as he looked at her,
wondering how her frail argosy, freighted with fine thought and
rich imagination, would weather a storm should storms arise. He
sat talking for a long time with her and Miss Leigh--reminding her
pleasantly of their journey up to London together,--while she, in
her turn, amused and astonished him by avowing the fact that it
was his loan of the "Morning Post" that had led her, through an
advertisement, to the house where she was now living.

"So I've had something of a hand in it all!" he said, cheerily--
"I'm glad of that! It was chance or luck, or whatever you call
it!--but I never thought that the little girl with the frightened
eyes, carrying a satchel for all her luggage, was a future great
author, to whom I, as a poor old journalist, would have to bow!"
He laughed kindly as he spoke--"And you are still a little girl!--
or you look one! I feel disposed to play literary grandfather to
you! But you want nobody's help--you have made yourself!"