argued that if I kept my family so comfortable that they missed
nothing from their usual routine, it was my right to do what I
could toward furthering my personal ambitions in what time I
could save from my housework. And until I could earn enough to
hire capable people to take my place, I held rigidly to that
rule. I who waded morass, fought quicksands, crept, worked from
ladders high in air, and crossed water on improvised rafts
without a tremor, slipped with many misgivings into the
postoffice and rented a box for myself, so that if I met with
failure my husband and the men in the bank need not know what I
had attempted. That was early May; all summer I waited. I had
heard that it required a long time for an editor to read and to
pass on matter sent him; but my waiting did seem out of all
reason. I was too busy keeping my cabin and doing field work to
repine; but I decided in my own mind that Mr. Maxwell was a `mean
old thing' to throw away my story and keep the return postage.
Besides, I was deeply chagrined, for I had thought quite well of
my effort myself, and this seemed to prove that I did not know
even the first principles of what would be considered an
interesting story.

"Then one day in September I went into our store on an errand and
the manager said to me: `I read your story in the Metropolitan
last night. It was great! Did you ever write any fiction before?'

"My head whirled, but I had learned to keep my own counsels, so I
said as lightly as I could, while my heart beat until I feared he
could hear it: `No. Just a simple little thing! Have you any
spare copies? My sister might want one.'