"There's a fair offer!" said my husband. "It seems to me, Wynnie, that
all that is wanted of you is to tell your tale so that other people can
recognize the human heart in it,--the heart that is like their own, and
be able to feel as if they were themselves going through the things you
recount."

"You describe the work of a genius, and coolly ask me to do it. Besides,
I don't want to be set thinking about my heart, and all that," I said
peevishly.

"Now, don't be raising objections where none exist," he returned.

"If you mean I am pretending to object, I have only to say that I feel all
one great objection to the whole affair, and that I won't touch it."

They were all silent; and I felt as if I had behaved ungraciously. Then
first I felt as if I might _have_ to do it, after all. But I couldn't see
my way in the least.

"Now, what is there," I asked, "in all my life that is worth setting
down,--I mean, as I should be able to set it down?"

"What do you ladies talk about now in your morning calls?" suggested Mr.
Blackstone, with a humorous glance from his deep black eyes.

"Nothing worth writing about, as I am sure _you_ will readily believe, Mr.
Blackstone," I answered.

"How comes it to be interesting, then?"