Her servant brought her something to eat on a tray-women left to themselves always find economy in discomfort-and she nibbled her chicken and read her stories till she felt surfeited with both, and fell to pondering on what made a story effective. Her eye lit upon a short poem at the end of a page; it seemed to her poor to banality-did it please the public or the editor? Her own verses were a thousand times better. She sat up suddenly with a heightened color and shining eyes, and laughed out loud.

She had an inspiration. She, too, would become a contributor to that great publishing output; she would try her luck at making her brains pay her bills. The name "Mrs.