“I mean that this is wonderful, and that I know I shall never write again,” I said.  “I do not know how it is, but I can read by the light of your book that you have genius, and that I am a failure.  It is well that something brought it home to me before I wasted any more time.”  I meant to speak bravely, but I knew more than this.  I knew that, with all my air-castles shattered, with the knowledge that to him literature was a pastime, while to me it meant livelihood, I gloried more in his success than I should in my own, that I was glad that he, and not I, was to have fame; and in the tumult of new emotions against which I struggled, my lip quivered, I turned aside my head, and felt, but I did not see, the hand that touched mine, thrilling me so that I drew away.

“Miss Marriott—­Kate—­”

“No, no,” I cried, facing him with my cheeks crimson, and speaking rapidly, “I want you to let me send a few pages for a reading to Mr. ——­, the editor of ——­’s Magazine; he is a friend of mine; he has been so good to me.  You say you have no publisher in view.  I am certain he will take this when it is finished, and you know what that means; it will make your reputation, and—­”

“Ah, but you see, these are only fragments,” he said, sadly, regaining his composure.  “Suppose I am never able to weave them properly into the plot?  You cannot know how discouraged I am sometimes.”

“Will you not let me send them?” I asked eagerly.  “It is quite true that they are only fragments, but no one could write such things and then fail of success in elaborating; it is impossible.  Come, let us go, it is nearly dinner-time,” I went on, not giving him time to speak, as I began gathering up the books and rugs.  “No, do not talk of my book; it is over.  It was only a fancy of mine.  I ought to have known I could not really write, and it came to me clearly this morning—­so clearly!  If you will let me be godmother to yours, that will be a little consolation,” I said laughing, and having now his consent to send his MSS. to Mr. ——­, I hurried him homeward, talking gaily of indifferent topics, and avoiding the tender, questioning eyes that sought my own.

That there was bitterness in the realization that I had miserably failed, that my novel was stupid and lacked the elements of interest, I cannot deny.  Why I had not seen it all before, I can never understand, but this morning, as I compared it with the brilliant and strange play of fancy that characterized Mr. Longworth’s work, I felt it keenly and conclusively.  In the long afternoon hours I spent that day alone with my manuscript, I learned to face calmly the fact that I must go back to newspaper work without the vestige of a hope that I should ever write a readable novel.  What it meant to me to arrive at this conclusion no one will understand who has not had the same hopes and the same downfall, yet through those hours in the little white-washed bed-room, with the locust boughs tapping against the window, the memory that I strenuously put away of that warm clasp, of the new tenderness in the voice that had called me by my name, softened the sharp pangs of disappointment; and he, at least, would not fail as I had done.