This was one of his flying visits home; and I began to wish that I had put on my white pique, with knots of scarlet ribbon.
He came in laughing, caressing and caressed, a draught of cold October air following in his wake; and I found my self shaking hands with a tall, pleasant-looking young man, whose bright laughing eyes were full of mischief and intelligence, and whose manners were charming. I regretted the white piqué more than ever.
"By the way," said Doctor Fred, plunging into the depths of his overcoat pocket, "I brought the mail with me, but it is all for Miss Rose."
My heart gave a great jump, and I was quite breathless with expectation. My letter, of course; and I had opened it—in imagination—and read:
"Dear Madam: Your very interesting story was most thankfully received. Pray accept the enclosed one hundred dollars as a most inadequate return, and let us hear from you as often as possible.
When I had perused this imaginary document, I caught sight of an awkward-looking packet (very like the one I had despatched), and, with a bow, it was deposited in my lap. I could have cried with vexation, but involuntarily I glanced at the gentleman, and saw, from his eye, that he knew exactly what it was. My mortification was complete: I felt my cheeks burn, and was rather glad when Susie said, laughingly,
"That is a formidable-looking package. I hope he hasn't been and gone and returned all your letters and keepsakes, has he?"
"Nothing half so important," I replied with an effort: "this is really not worth having;" and I stuffed it into my pocket.
That hateful doctor! To think of his knowing, at the outset, that I was a rejected author! And that still more hateful editor! Not even an apology for his unfeeling conduct: nothing but the words "Too long" scrawled in one corner of my manuscript.
As soon after tea as I conveniently could, I slipped off to the library, where I knew that I should be alone for an hour at least; and getting behind the window curtain, I enjoyed the luxury of a good cry. It was quite an infantile sort of boo-hoo-ing, and I found it a decided relief.
After a while I heard a sigh that made me start rather guiltily.
"I quite understand your feelings, Miss Rose," said the doctor, coming forward: "I have been through it all myself."
"You!" I exclaimed in surprise, as I suddenly called to mind the reiterated praises of Fred's exceeding cleverness that had been sounded in my ears by all the family in turn—how he wrote "lovely poetry" and had edited a paper, and I knew not what all.
"Yes," he continued, as quietly as though we had known each other all our lives, "I tried a story once, and asked the editor to criticise it. His reply to my confiding request is written with fire on my memory. 'Sir,' he wrote, 'your characters are the creations of a lunatic, your style that of an idiot, and your presumption worthy of a king.' I showed the letter and story to a friend. My friend simply said, 'He doesn't appreciate it.' I thought this a very mild way of speaking."
"What did you do?" I asked with a great deal of interest.
"Sent the article to another editor, who did appreciate it, and got twenty-five dollars for it. I should like to see your story, Miss Rose."
"I couldn't think of it," said I, blushing behind the shield of the curtains.
"I think you could," was the quiet reply. "Suppose we appoint a meeting here for Monday morning, and review the story 'with a cricket's eye' from beginning to end. There are more editors in the world than one."
He spoke as though it were such a matter of course that I could not refuse; and feeling that he was very kind, I hastened back to the parlor, while the doctor proceeded to search for a book which he said he had come in quest of
