On Jane’s return to Cross Hall she found her sister in very much better spirits than when she set out for Allendale.  An idea had struck Elsie, consequent partly on the remark Jane had made about her name looking well on the title-page of a book, and partly on her seeing in the Poet’s Corner of the Swinton Courier some verses very inferior to her own which Mrs. Dalzell had returned to her.  She was a poet; and what was there to hinder her from distinguishing herself in the literary world by thoughts that breathe and words that burn; and also from earning in this pleasant way a handsome income.  Hope arose out of the vision; the fanciful and fragile mind that every one had despised and undervalued might, perhaps, do greater things than Jane’s clear head and busy hands.  Never had her ideas flowed more rapidly, or her words arranged themselves so well.  She began by bewailing her own sad fate, the loss of fortune, and the desertion of friends; and the sincerity of her feelings made it feel like an inspiration.  Things that appeared to her to be new thoughts crowded on her, and before Jane’s return she had finished a short poem very much to her own satisfaction.

She would scarcely wait to hear the result of her sister’s visit to Miss Thomson, but impetuously and affectionately made Jane sit down to listen to her lay.

“I wish I were a good judge, Elsie.  It seems to me to be very pretty.  Here and there I would alter a word; but, on the whole, I think you have succeeded,” was the welcome criticism.

“You think so; and you are so prosaic.  I feel as if I could go on for ever writing.  Don’t you think you have seen worse verses printed, not in a newspaper, but in a book?”

“I read so little of that kind of literature; but I am sure you often read pieces to me, from both newspapers and books, that do not interest me half so much.”

“Oh, Jane, I count so much on your good opinion, because I know that you will give it honestly, and because I think if I can please you I may please anybody.”  And Elsie looked so animated, so joyous, and so spiritual, that Jane’s hopes rose.  She, indeed, was no judge of poetry, but anything that could give courage and hope to her sister’s mind must be a good thing.

“You must persevere, my dear.  It will do yourself good, if no other good comes of it,” said she.

“But other good is sure to come of it, Jane.  Do not such things get printed, and of course the writer is paid for them?  I can write so fast; and now I know some of the real trials of life, I can speak from experience.”

“And you are the type of the bulk of the poetry-reading public,” said Jane thoughtfully.  “The lady readers, I mean; generous, impulsive, and romantic; you ought to know what will suit the public taste.  I wish you all success.  But I have failed in my object, and have been advised to go to Edinburgh.  You saw I had a letter this morning from Mr. Hogarth, with an invitation for both of us to come and live at his house, and look about us.  You would not like to go?”