“It is a very beautiful and expressive style,” said the publisher —­“I told Mr. Harrington, when he first suggested that you might be the author, that it was altogether too scholarly for a girl.”

She gave a slight deprecatory gesture.

“Pray do not let us discuss it,” she said—­“I am not at all pleased to be known as the author.”

“No?” And he looked surprised—­“Surely you must be happy to become so suddenly famous?”

“Are famous persons happy?” she asked—­“I don’t think they are!  To be stared at and whispered about and criticised—­that’s not happiness!  And men never like you!”

The publisher laughed.

“You can do without their liking, Miss Armitage,” he said—­“You’ve beaten all the literary fellows on their own ground!  You ought to be satisfied.  We are very proud!”

“Thank you!” she said, simply, as she rose to go—­“I am grateful for your good opinion.”

When she had left him, the publisher eagerly turned over the pages of her new manuscript.  At a glance he saw that there was no “falling-off”—­he recognised the same lucidity of expression, the same point and delicacy of phraseology which had distinguished her first effort, and the wonderful charm with which a thought was pressed firmly yet tenderly home to its mark.

“It will be a greater triumph for her and for us than the previous book!” he said—­“She’s a wonder!—­and the most wonderful thing about her is that she has no conceit, and is unconscious of her own power!”

Two or three days after the announcement of her authorship, came a letter from Robin Clifford.

“Dear innocent,” it ran, “I see that your name, or rather the name you have taken for yourself, is made famous as that of the author of a book which is creating a great sensation—­and I venture to write a word of congratulation, hoping it may be acceptable to you from your playmate and friend of bygone days.  I can hardly believe that the dear little ‘Innocent’ of Briar Farm has become such a celebrated and much-talked-of personage, for after all it is not yet two years since you left us.  I have told Priscilla, and she sends her love and duty, and hopes God will allow her to see you once again before she dies.  The work of the farm goes on as usual, and everything prospers—­all is as Uncle Hugo would have wished—­ all except one thing which I know will never be!  But you must not think I grumble at my fate.  I might feel lonely if I had not plenty of work to do and people dependent on me—­but under such circumstances I manage to live a life that is at least useful to others and I want for nothing.  In the evenings when the darkness closes in, and we light the tall candles in the old pewter sconces, I often wish I could see a little fair head shining like a cameo against the dark oak panelling—­a vision of grace and hope and comfort!—­but as this cannot be, I read old books—­even some of