“You think it would do with these alterations, then?”

“Yes, it’s a new plot, and pretty well worked up—­language good, and so on,” was Mr. Dashwood’s affable reply.

“What do you—­that is, what compensation—­” began Jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.

“Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort.  Pay when it comes out,” returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had escaped him.  Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

“Very well, you can have it,” said Jo, handing back the story with a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed good pay.

“Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than this?” asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success.

“Well, we’ll look at it.  Can’t promise to take it.  Tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral.  What name would your friend like to put on it?” in a careless tone.

“None at all, if you please, she doesn’t wish her name to appear and has no nom de plume,” said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

“Just as she likes, of course.  The tale will be out next week.  Will you call for the money, or shall I send it?” asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

“I’ll call.  Good morning, Sir.”

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark, “Poor and proud, as usual, but she’ll do.”

Following Mr. Dashwood’s directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected.  Her readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed.  One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home.  She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward.  It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories.  Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.