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“Of course it’s a splendid chance—to go and be Yankeefied,”’ grunted Mr. Carpenter.

“I wouldn’t get Yankeefied,”’ said Emily resentfully. ‘Miss Royal has been twenty years in New York and she isn’t Yankeefied.”

“Isn’t she? I don’t mean by Yankeefied what you think I do,” retorted Mr. Carpenter. “I’m not referring to the silly girls who go up to ‘the States’ to work and come back in six months with an accent that would raise blisters on your skin. Janet Royal is Yankeefied—her outlook and atmosphere and style are all U.S. And I’m not condemning them—they’re all right. But—she isn’t a Canadian any longer—and that’s what I wanted you to be—pure Canadian through and through, doing something as far as in you lay for the literature of your own country, keeping your Canadian tang and flavour. But of course there’s not many dollars in that sort of thing yet.”

“There’s no chance to do anything here,” argued Emily.

“No—no more than there was in Haworth-Parsonage,” growled Mr. Carpenter.

“I’m not a Charlotte Brontë,” protested Emily. “She had genius—it can stand alone. I have only talent—it needs help—and—and—guidance.”

“In short, pull,” said Mr. Carpenter.

“So you think I oughtn’t to go,” said Emily anxiously.

“Go if you want to. To be quickly famous we must all stoop a little. Oh, go—go—I’m telling you. I’m too old to argue—go in peace. You’d be a fool not to—only—fools do sometimes attain. There’s a special Providence for them, no doubt.”

Emily went away from the little house in the hollow with her eyes rather black. She met Old Kelly on her way up the hill and he pulled his plump nag and red chariot to a standstill and beckoned to her.

“Gurrl dear, here’s some peppermints for you. And now, ain’t it high time—eh—now, you know—” Old Kelly winked at her.