From time to time after that I earned a few pounds for stories in the same journal; and the Family Herald, let me say, has one peculiarity which should render it beloved by poor authors; it pays its contributor when it accepts the paper, whether it prints it immediately or not; thus my first story was not printed for some weeks after I received the cheque, and it was the same with all the others accepted by the same journal.  Encouraged by these small successes, I began writing a novel!  It took a long time to do, but was at last finished, and sent off to the Family Herald.  The poor thing came back, but with a kind note, telling me that it was too political for their pages, but that if I would write one of “purely domestic interest,” and up to the same level, it would probably be accepted.  But by that time I was in the full struggle of theological doubt, and that novel of “purely domestic interest” never got itself written.

I contributed further to the literature of my country a theological pamphlet, of which I forget the exact title, but it dealt with the duty of fasting incumbent on all faithful Christians, and was very patristic in its tone.

In January, 1869, my little son was born, and as I was very ill for some months before, and was far too much interested in the tiny creature afterwards, to devote myself to pen and paper, my literary career was checked for a while.  The baby gave a new interest and a new pleasure to life, and as we could not afford a nurse I had plenty to do in looking after his small majesty.  My energy in reading became less feverish when it was done by the side of the baby’s cradle, and the little one’s presence almost healed the abiding pain of my mother’s loss.

I may pass very quickly over the next two years.  In August, 1870, a little sister was born to my son, and the recovery was slow and tedious, for my general health had been failing for some time.

[Illustration:  From a photograph by Dighton’s Art Studio, Cheltenham.  ANNIE BESANT 1869.]

The boy was a bright, healthy little fellow, but the girl was delicate from birth, suffering from her mother’s unhappiness, and born somewhat prematurely in consequence of a shock.  When, in the spring of 1871, the two children caught the whooping cough, my Mabel’s delicacy made the ordeal well-nigh fatal to her.  She was very young for so trying a disease, and after a while bronchitis set in and was followed by congestion of the lungs.  For weeks she lay in hourly peril of death We arranged a screen round the fire like a tent, and kept it full of steam to ease the panting breath; and there I sat, day and night, all through those weary weeks, the tortured baby on my knees.  I loved my little ones passionately, for their clinging love soothed the aching at my heart, and their baby eyes could not critically scan the unhappiness that grew deeper month by month; and that steam-filled tent became my world, and there, alone, I fought with Death