manuscript with him and read it upon the train?  It might—­he couldn’t say positively, of course—­but it might have serial possibilities.  I was only too glad for him to have the manuscript.  I forget just how many chapters I had completed.  But it was not quite in order.  Could I get it so in a few hours?  In that case he would send a messenger for it from the hotel.  Yes, I could.  Very good!  A little further talk and he left with a strong handshake.  Three or four hours later he had the manuscript and took it with him from Birmingham that night.”

Page’s enterprising visit had put into his hands the half-finished manuscript of a story, “To Have and to Hold,” which, when printed in the Atlantic, more than doubled its circulation, and which, when made into a book, proved one of the biggest successes since “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”

Page’s most independent stroke in his Atlantic days came with the outbreak of the Spanish-American War.  Boston was then the headquarters of a national mood which has almost passed out of popular remembrance.  Its spokesmen called themselves anti-imperialists.  The theory back of their protest was that the American declaration of war on Spain was not only the wanton attack of a great bully upon a feeble little country:  it was something that was bound to have deplorable consequences.  The United States was breaking with its past and engaging in European quarrels; as a consequence of the war it would acquire territories and embark on a career of “imperialism.”  Page was impatient at this kind of twaddle.  He declared that the Spanish War was a “necessary act of surgery for the health of civilization.”  He did not believe that a nation, simply because it was small, should be permitted to maintain indefinitely a human slaughter house at the door of the United States.  The Atlantic for June, 1898, gave the so-called anti-imperialists a thrill of horror.  On the cover appeared the defiantly flying American flag; the first article was a vigorous and approving presentation of the American case against Spain; though this was unsigned, its incisive style at once betrayed the author.  The Atlantic had printed the American flag on its cover during the Civil War; but certain New Englanders thought that this latest struggle, in its motives and its proportions, was hardly entitled to the distinction.  Page declared, however, that the Spanish War marked a new period in history; and he endorsed the McKinley Administration, not only in the war itself, but in its consequences, particularly the annexation of the Philippine Islands.

Page greatly enjoyed life in Boston and Cambridge.  The Atlantic was rapidly growing in circulation and in influence, and the new friends that its editor was making were especially to his taste.  He now had a family of four children, three boys and one girl—­and their bringing up and education, as he said at this time, constituted his real occupation.  So far as he could see, in the summer of 1899, he was permanently established in life.  But larger events in the publishing world now again pulled him back to New York.