shall shine in the annals of literature and serve as a beacon to encourage others equally as anxious for celebrity.  I was not surprised to see you in print; for long, long ago, before you realized the extent of your mental dowry, I saw the kindling of that ambitious spark whose flame generally consumes the women in whose hearts it burns.  The history of literary females is not calculated to allay the apprehension that oppresses me, as I watch you just setting out on a career so fraught with trials of which you have never dreamed.  As a class they are martyrs, uncrowned and uncanonized; jeered at by the masses, sincerely pitied by a few earnest souls, and wept over by the relatives who really love them.  Thousands of women have toiled over books that proved millstones and drowned them in the sea of letters.  How many of the hundreds of female writers scattered through the world in this century, will be remembered six months after the coffin closes over their weary, haggard faces?  You may answer, ’They made their bread.’  Ah, child! it would have been sweeter if earned at the wash-tub, or in the dairy, or by their needles.  It is the rough handling, the jars, the tension of the heartstrings that sap the foundations of a woman’s life and consign her to an early grave; and a Cherokee rose-hedge is not more thickly set with thorns than a literary career with grievous, vexatious, tormenting disappointments.  If you succeed after years of labor and anxiety and harassing fears, you will become a target for envy and malice, and, possibly, for slander.  Your own sex will be jealous of your eminence, considering your superiority an insult to their mediocrity; and mine will either ridicule or barely tolerate you; for men detest female competitors in the Olympian game of literature.  If you fail, you will be sneered down till you become embittered, soured, misanthropic; a curse to yourself, a burden to the friends who sympathize with your blasted hopes.  Edna, you have talent, you write well, you are conscientious; but you are not De Stael, or Hannah More, or Charlotte Bronte, or Elizabeth Browning; and I shudder when I think of the disappointment that may overtake all your eager aspirations.  If I could be always near you, I should indulge less apprehension for your future; for I believe that I could help you to bear patiently whatever is in store for you.  But far away among strangers you must struggle alone.”

“Mr. Hammond, I do not rely upon myself; my hope is in God.”

“My child, the days of miraculous inspiration are ended.”

“Ah! do not discourage me.  When the Bishop of Noyon hesitated to consecrate St. Radegund, she said to him, ’Thou wilt have to render thy account, and the Shepherd will require of thee the souls of his sheep.’  My dear sir, your approbation is the consecration that I desire upon my purpose.  God will not forsake me; He will strengthen and guide me and bless my writing, even as He blesses your preaching.  Because He gave you five talents and to me only one, do you think that in the great day of reckoning mine will not be required of me?  I do not expect to ‘enter into the joy of my Lord’ as you will be worthy to do; but with the blessing of God, I trust the doom of the altogether unprofitable servant will not be pronounced against me.”