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as anybody’s. I may not succeed here—but, if not, I wouldn’t succeed in New York either. Some fountain of living water would dry up in my soul if I left the land I love. I know I’ll have difficulties and discouragements here, but people have overcome far worse. You know that story you told me about Parkman—that for years he was unable to write for more than five minutes at a time—that he took three years to write one of his books—six lines per day for three years. I shall always remember that when I get discouraged. It will help me through any number of white nights.”

“Well”—Miss Royal threw out her hands—“I give up. I think you’re making a terrible mistake, Emily—but if in the years to come I find out I’m wrong I’ll write and admit it. And if you find out you were wrong write me and admit it, and you'll find me as ready to help you as ever. I won't even say ‘I told you so.’ Send me any of your stories my magazine is fit for, and ask me for any advice I can give. I’m going right back to New York tomorrow. I was only going to wait till July to take you with me. Since you won’t come I’m off. I detest living in a place where all they think is that I’ve played my cards badly, and lost the matrimonial game—where all the young girls—except you—are so abominably respectful to me—and where the old folks keep telling me I look so much like my mother. Mother was ugly. Let’s say good-bye and make it snappy.”

“Miss Royal,” said Emily earnestly, “you do believe—don’t you—that I appreciate your kindness? Your sympathy and encouragement have meant more to me—always will mean more to me than you can ever dream.”

Miss Royal whisked her handkerchief furtively across her eyes and made an elaborate curtsey.

“Thank you for them kind words, lady,” she said solemnly.

Then she laughed a little, put her hands on Emily’s shoulders and kissed her cheek.

“All the good wishes ever thought, said, or written go