IV
The old captain leaned forward to knock the dottel from his pipe upon the andirons, and settled in his chair again. For a little time we sat without speaking; but I asked at last:
“Joan—did she forgive him in the end?”
Cap’n Brackett’s grim old countenance softened. “Oh, aye,” he said. “She’d forgiven him before. She warned me when we started on the cruise to watch over him.” He filled and lighted his ancient pipe again, then softly finished: “She’s gone, long since. But our daughter looks very like her now.”
NOTE
IT was, if memory may be relied upon, Aristotle who initiated the Greeks into the delights of classification, analysis and definition. Since then, the love of pasting names on things has become so universal that it may almost be classed as an instinct. The ordinary man, in the presence of a new mountain, river, brook, hill, tree, flower, house, automobile, puppy or kitten infallibly asks himself: “What shall I call it?” And having labelled and catalogued his new discovery or acquisition, he is content.
There would appear to be some need of more accurate classification and definition in the field of prose fiction. The word “novel” has come to be as capacious as an omnibus. A story of twenty thousand words is labelled “novelette” in a magazine; then makes its bow between boards as a full-fledged novel. This same confusion extends in the other direction; and it is not infrequent to see stories of twenty thousand words and upward called “short stories.” A manuscript which is a short story in one magazine is a novelette in another, and a novel later on. This confusion has no doubt arisen from the custom, fairly general among the book-buying public, of preferring a “thick” book. Print a short story in large type, with wide margins, and call it a novel; thus is the demand for bulk most easily satisfied.