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several acceptances and checks, and was beginning to plume herself on being quite a literary person. Her clan began to take her scribbling mania somewhat seriously. Checks were unanswerable things.

“Emily has made fifty dollars by her pen since New Year’s,” Aunt Ruth told Mrs. Drury. “I begin to think the child has an easy way of making a living.”

An easy way! Emily, overhearing this as she went through the hall, smiled and sighed. What did Aunt Ruth—what did any one know of the disappointments and failures of the climbers on Alpine Paths? What did she know of the despairs and agonies of one who sees but cannot reach. What did she know of the bitterness of one who conceives a wonderful tale and writes it down, only to find a flat and flavourless manuscript as a reward for all her toil? What did she know of barred doors and impregnable editorial sanctums? Of brutal rejection slips and the awfulness of faint praise? Of hopes deferred and hours of sickening doubt and self-distrust?

Aunt Ruth knew of none of these things, but she took to having fits of indignation when Emily’s manuscripts were returned.

“Impudence I call it,” she said. “Don’t send that editor another line. Remember, you’re a Murray!”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t know that,” said Emily, gravely.

“Then why don’t you tell him?” said Aunt Ruth.

Shrewsbury had a mild sensation in May when Janet Royal came home from New York with her wonderful dresses, her brilliant reputation, and her chow dog. Janet was a Shrewsbury girl, but she had never been home since she had “gone to the States” twenty years ago. She was clever and ambitious and she had succeeded. She was the literary editor of a big metropolitan woman’s magazine and one of the readers for a noted publishing house. Emily held her breath when she heard of Miss Royal’s arrival. Oh, if she could only see her—have a talk with her—ask her about a hundred things she wanted to know! When Mr. Towers told her in an off-hand manner to go