“Madam:  In reply to your very extraordinary request I have the honor to inform you, that my time is so entirely consumed by necessary and important claims, that I find no leisure at my command for the examination of the embryonic chapter of a contemplated book.  I am, madam,

“Very respectfully,

“Douglass G. Manning.”

Tears of disappointment filled her eyes and for a moment she bit her lip with uncontrolled vexation; then refolding the letter, she put it in a drawer of her desk, and said sorrowfully: 

“I certainly had no right to expect anything more polite from him.  He snubs even his popular contributors, and of course he would not be particularly courteous to an unknown scribbler.  Perhaps some day I may make him regret that letter; and such a triumph will more than compensate for this mortification.  One might think that all literary people, editors, authors, reviewers, would sympathize with each other, and stretch out their hands to aid one another! but it seems there is less free-masonry among literati than other guilds.  They wage an internecine war among themselves, though it certainly can not be termed ‘civil strife,’ judging from Mr. Douglass Manning’s letter.”

Chagrined and perplexed she walked up and down the room, wondering what step would be most expedient in the present state of affairs; and trying to persuade herself that she ought to consult Mr. Hammond.  But she wished to surprise him, to hear his impartial opinion of a printed article which he could not suspect that she had written, and finally she resolved to say nothing to any one, to work on in silence, relying upon herself.  With this determination she sat down before her desk, opened the Ms. of her book, and very soon became absorbed in writing the second chapter.  Before she had finished even the first sentence a hasty rap summoned her to the door.

She opened it, and found Mr. Murray standing in the hall, with a candle in his hand.

“Where is that volume of chess problems which you had last week?”

“It is here, sir.”

She took it from the table, and as she approached him, Mr. Murray held the light close to her countenance, and gave her one of those keen looks which always reminded her of the descriptions of the scrutiny of the Council of Ten, in the days when “lions’ mouths” grinned at the street-corners in Venice.

Something in the curious expression of his face, and the evident satisfaction which he derived from his hasty investigation, told Edna that the book was a mere pretext.  She drew back and asked: 

“Have I any other book that you need?”

“No; I have all I came for.”

Smiling half mischievously, half maliciously, he turned and left her.

“I wonder what he saw in my face that amused him?”

She walked up to the bureau and examined her own image in the mirror; and there, on her cheeks, were the unmistakable traces of the tears of vexation and disappointment.