The next day and the next I was ill and feverish, so ill that I could not rise.  Mr. Longworth brought for me great bunches of choice flowers, for which he must have sent Wilson to the next town of New Sidon, and a dainty basket of fruit.  The third day I rose and dressed toward noon, and weak as I felt, I decided to walk down to the post-office, for I thought perhaps the air would do me good, and beside, the mail was never brought up until after dark, and I longed to find if Mr. ——­ had written me as I expected, about the manuscript.  I knew he would be very prompt with me.

I found several letters in the box for me, and eagerly scanning the envelopes, I discovered the well-known buff tint, with the red device of a female figure with a book clasped to the breast, that is the livery of “——­’s Magazine.”  I tore it open, reading as I slowly walked.  Mr. ——­ had written as follows, in his hurried hand: 

“OFFICE OF ——­’s MAGAZINE.

“MY DEAR MISS MARRIOTT: 

“I return the MSS. you sent us, and I have no hesitation in saying that your friend is a genius.  In fact, I was so chained by the somewhat wild and singular style that I sat up most of Tuesday night to go through it myself.

“Of course in their present disconnected state, the fragments are quite unavailable to us, but when worked into a story, they ought to make a success.  I hope we shall have the first reading of the completed book.  I understand it is the work of a beginner, but it bears none of the marks of the novice, and I can but think we have discovered the ’coming American novelist.’

“By the way, how is your own book coming on?

“Yours in haste,

“——­ ——.”

I had walked on some distance from the post-office as I read this, for Mr. ——­’s chirography was almost undecipherable, even to one accustomed to it.  I was just folding the letter to replace it in the envelope, when I heard heavy footsteps hurrying behind me.  I turned my head and saw Wilson, quite red in the face with trying to overtake me.  “Beg pardon, Miss,” he said, touching his hat, “I saw you coming out of the office, and—­I’d like to speak to you a minute, if I may.”

“What is it?” I asked, somewhat surprised.  I stepped back from the path, and Wilson stooped down awkwardly, and picked a twig from a low bush that grew by the fence.  “Well,” he began, drawing a long breath, “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’ve made up my mind to tell you.  I expect I ought to have done it before, but my orders was so strict, and—­you see I’m saving up to get married, and a man hates to lose a good place,—­but that’s neither here nor there, Miss, the truth is, I ain’t Mr. Longworth’s nurse, and I ain’t his valley neither.  I’m—­I’m his attendant.”

“Well, what of it?” I said, with some irritation.  How could Wilson’s absurd distinctions matter to me?  What did I care whether he called himself valet, or nurse, or attendant?