But months went on, and he heard nothing, save of Innocent’s growing fame which, by leaps and bounds, was spreading abroad like fire blown into brightness by the wind.  He got her first book and read it with astonishment and admiration, utterly confounded by its brilliancy and power.  When her second work appeared with her adopted name appended to it as the author, all the reading world “rushed” at it, and equally “rushed” at her, lifting her, as it were, on their shoulders and bearing her aloft, against her own desire, above the seething tide of fashion and frivolity as though she were a queen of many kingdoms, crowned with victory.  And again the old journalist, John Harrington, sought an audience of her, and this time was not refused.  She received him in Miss Leigh’s little drawing-room, holding out both her hands to him in cordial welcome, with a smile frank and sincere enough to show him at a glance that her “celebrity” had left her unscathed.  She was still the same simple child-like soul, wearing the mystical halo of spiritual dreams rather than the brazen baldric of material prosperity—­and he, bitterly seasoned in the hardest ways of humanity, felt a thrill of compassion as he looked at her, wondering how her frail argosy, freighted with fine thought and rich imagination, would weather a storm should storms arise.  He sat talking for a long time with her and Miss Leigh—­reminding her pleasantly of their journey up to London together,—­while she, in her turn, amused and astonished him by avowing the fact that it was his loan of the “Morning Post” that had led her, through an advertisement, to the house where she was now living.

“So I’ve had something of a hand in it all!” he said, cheerily—­ “I’m glad of that!  It was chance or luck, or whatever you call it!—­but I never thought that the little girl with the frightened eyes, carrying a satchel for all her luggage, was a future great author, to whom I, as a poor old journalist, would have to bow!” He laughed kindly as he spoke—­“And you are still a little girl!—­ or you look one!  I feel disposed to play literary grandfather to you!  But you want nobody’s help—­you have made yourself!”

“She has, indeed!” said Miss Leigh, with pride sparkling in her tender eyes—­“When she came here, and suddenly decided to stay with me, I had no idea of her plans, or what she was studying.  She used to shut herself up all the morning and write—­she told me she was finishing off some work—­in fact it was her first book,—­a manuscript she brought with her from the country in that famous satchel!  I knew nothing at all about it till she confided to me one day that she had written a book, and that it had been accepted by a publisher.  I was amazed!”

“And the result must have amazed you still more,” said Harrington,—­“but I’m a very astute person!—­and I guessed at once, when I was told the address of the ’private secretary of the author,’ that the secretary was the author herself!”