Their chief difficulties have been about the home party. Mr. Romilly stays at Glynde House, to be sure; but he is of no use, and Maggie is too young to manage the others. Miss Jackson not being able to come back makes such a difference.
They are writing to ask Mrs. Romilly's Bath friend to be governess. Miss Conway has lost her aunt, and wants now to support herself by going out. But she is only a girl—and there are all those girls to look after. And Mr. Romilly being so fidgety and odd—and Thyrza so set on her own way—and Elfie so easily upset—why, it ought to be a woman of forty or fifty, to know what to do. However, Mrs. Romilly is quite set on having nobody but Miss Conway, and the others daren't contradict her.
February 24.—It is all settled. Miss Conway comes a week after Mrs. Romilly goes. I cannot help pitying her. Uncle Tom says, "No doubt it will all be for the best." But is everything always for the best,—even unwise arrangements of our own? If they were, I should think one would not mind making blunders.
February 25. Wednesday.—This morning at last came the answer from the Society, which we have waited for so long. My book is taken. The alterations are found to be all right. It will be published at once, as a one-and-sixpenny volume, and I am to have fifteen pounds for the copyright.
Uncle Tom says "selling the copyright" of a book means getting rid of it altogether. I shall never have any more right over the tale. He says that is the simplest and best sort of arrangement for a beginner. I am very glad and very thankful; and I do feel that this is a real answer to prayer.
About a month ago I told Nellie what I had done; and she was so interested. But till this morning, the other girls have only known that I was fond of scribbling tales for my own amusement. They had arranged to call after breakfast, and take me for a long walk; and when they came Ramsay told them about my book.
Elfie's eyes grew very big; and Thyrza as usual said nothing. She only seemed rather astonished. Nona said "How nice!" And Maggie began to talk at once about doing the same. She said she should begin a story to-morrow; and I think she thought it the easiest thing in the world.
Is it really easy? Or can it be? I have been wondering. Of course music is easy in one way to a man who has a musical genius,—and painting to a man who has a gift for painting. But in another way it is not easy, for it must always mean hard work, and hard thinking, and perseverance. Not just tossing off a thing anyhow, and expecting to succeed without a grain of trouble.
It doesn't seem to me that writing books is a thing which anybody can do, just in imitation of somebody else. One must have a sort of natural bent or gift—God's gift,—and then one has to use that gift, and to make the most of it by hard work.
I did not say all this to Maggie, however. For she might have such a bent, and yet not have found it out. And at all events she may as well try.