Ah! it was a frail paper bark, freighted with the noblest, purest aspirations that ever possessed a woman’s soul, launched upon the tempestuous sea of popular favor, with ambition at the helm, hope for a compass, and the gaunt spectre of failure grinning in the shrouds.  Would it successfully weather the gales of malice, envy and detraction?  Would it battle valiantly and triumphantly with the piratical hordes of critics who prowl hungrily along the track over which it must sail?  Would it become a melancholy wreck on the mighty ocean of literature, or would it proudly ride at anchor in the harbor of immortality, with her name floating for ever at the masthead?

It was an experiment such as had stranded the hopes of hundreds and thousands; and the pinched, starved features of Chatterton, and the white, pleading face of Keats, stabbed to death by reviewers’ poisoned pens, rose like friendly phantoms and whispered sepulchral warnings.

But to-day the world wore only rosy garments, unspotted by shadows, and the silvery voice of youthful enthusiasm sung only of victory and spoils, as hope gayly struck the cymbals and fingered the timbrels.

When Edna returned to her room, she sat down before her desk to reperuse the letter which had given her so much gratification; and, as she refolded it, Mrs. Murray came in and closed the door after her.

Her face was stern and pale; she walked up to the orphan, looked at her suspiciously, and when she spoke her voice was hard and cold.

“I wish to see that letter which you received to-day, as it is very improper that you should, without my knowledge, carry on a correspondence with a stranger.  I would not have believed that you could be guilty of such conduct.”

“I am very much pained, Mrs. Murray, that you should even for a moment have supposed that I had forfeited your confidence.  The nature of the correspondence certainly sanctions my engaging in it, even without consulting you.  This letter is the second I have received from Mr. Manning, the editor of—­Magazine, and was written in answer to a request of mine, with reference to a literary matter which concerns nobody but myself.  I will show you the signature; there it is—­Douglass G. Manning.  You know his literary reputation and his high position.  If you demand it, of course, I can not refuse to allow you to read it; but, dear Mrs. Murray, I hope you will not insist upon it, as I prefer that no one should see the contents, at least at present.  As I have never deceived you, I think you might trust me when I assure you that the correspondence is entirely restricted to literary subjects.”

“Why, then, should you object to my reading it?”

“For a reason which I will explain at some future day, if you will only have confidence in me.  Still, if you are determined to examine the letter, of course I must submit, though it would distress me exceedingly to know that you can not, or will not, trust me in so small a matter.”