me to say this and say that; which you may see at once would render it
impossible for me to write at all."

"I think I can suggest a way out of that difficulty, Wynnie," said my
father. "You must write freely, all you feel inclined to write, and then
let your husband see it. You may be content to let all pass that he
passes."

"You don't say you really mean it, papa! The thing is perfectly impossible.
I never wrote a book in my life, and"--

"No more did I, my dear, before I began my first."

"But you grew up to it by degrees, papa!"

"I have no doubt that will make it the easier for you, when you try. I am
so far, at least, a Darwinian as to believe that."

"But, really, Mr. S. ought to have more sense--I beg your pardon, Mr. S.;
but it is perfectly absurd to suppose me capable of finishing any thing my
father has begun. I assure you I don't feel flattered by your proposal. I
have got a man of more consequence for a father than that would imply."

All this time my tall husband sat silent at the foot of the table, as if
he had nothing on earth to do with the affair, instead of coming to my
assistance, when, as I thought, I really needed it, especially seeing
my own father was of the combination against me; for what can be more
miserable than to be taken for wiser or better or cleverer than you know
perfectly well you are. I looked down the table, straight and sharp at him,
thinking to rouse him by the most powerful of silent appeals; and when he