for you. I hope you're feeling better?—Here, Minnie, Minnie, Minnie, Min, Min! Oh, she's after that piece of paper. Silly thing!…' (Turning to me again.) 'I'll let her stop with you … if you like.'
'Thank you,' I said, 'that's kind of you. I should like.'
'Good-bye,' she said.
'Good-bye,' I answered to her slowly going, 'and thank you for all your goodness to me. Miss' (she stopped)—'Rosebud.'
'I shall see you soon again,' she said; and, at the door, 'If you wouldn't mind going into my room in a little—that's this one here,' (opening the door and pointing to the right), 'we'd get your bed done very quickly, and you could come back again. I don't think you ought to dress and go out yet.'
'Very well,' I said, 'thank you. I will.'
She went out; but looking in again.
'Put on your coat or something,' she said, 'for fear you catch cold.' And withdrew her head, and the door closed, and she was gone.
I sat up in bed, and threw out my arms.
'Oh you Rosebud!' I said, laughing, 'you Rosebud!'
We had a short conversation together that evening as I ate my tea in bed, and then we said good-night, and she left me. And I set about thinking what I had best do now. The failure of my attempt to earn my livelihood by my pen was a heavy blow to me, and the heavier that it was unexpected.—But I gave up further consideration of the matter for the present: I must have some means of support, and immediately. And what was the good of thinking of poetry, after what Parker, Innes & Co. had said about it?
All at once the idea of becoming a schoolmaster flashed upon me. Why not? I was sure I was quite as capable of teaching as poor Currie, the undermaster at Whittaker's.—Or a private secretaryship?—I let my thoughts go, and had planned out my life as under-master, or private secretary, or tutor, before I fell into a sweet dreamless sleep.
The next day, in the morning, although I was, I
