opened his mouth very solemnly, staring at me in return down all the length
of the table, I thought I had succeeded. But I was not a little surprised,
when I heard him say,--

"I think, Wynnie, as your father and Mr. S. appear to wish it, you might at
least try."

This almost overcame me, and I was very near,--never mind what. I bit my
lips, and tried to smile, but felt as if all my friends had forsaken me,
and were about to turn me out to beg my bread. How on earth could I write a
book without making a fool of myself?

"You know, Mrs. Percivale," said Mr. S., "you needn't be afraid about the
composition, and the spelling, and all that. We can easily set those to
rights at the office."

He couldn't have done any thing better to send the lump out of my throat;
for this made me angry.

"I am not in the least anxious about the spelling," I answered; "and for
the rest, pray what is to become of me, if what you print should happen to
be praised by somebody who likes my husband or my father, and therefore
wants to say a good word for me? That's what a good deal of reviewing comes
to, I understand. Am I to receive in silence what doesn't belong to me, or
am I to send a letter to the papers to say that the whole thing was patched
and polished at the printing-office, and that I have no right to more than
perhaps a fourth part of the commendation? How would that do?"

"But you forget it is not to have your name to it," he said; "and so it
won't matter a bit. There will be nothing dishonest about it."