May 14. Thursday.—Fifteen pounds came yesterday,—the first money I ever earned by my own brains. I have put some into the Savings Bank, and part of it I mean to spend. I hope I shall never get into spendthrift ways.
Several kind letters have reached me about my little book,—and some give advice. I think I liked best of all Mr. Wilmington saying he had nearly cried over it. Aunt Anne Hepburn complains that the colour of her copy is very ugly, and she points out a misprint on the fourth page. But I don't see how one can choose out the prettiest colours for everybody.
The little ones from Glynde House have been here this evening, and we all had a good game of play. It was rather fun to feel that, as I had a printed book out, nobody would count me too childish for my age, and so I could just enjoy myself as much as ever I liked. Was that silly?
I wonder how soon poor Maggie will hear about her MS. She seems getting rather impatient. I don't wonder, for I have often felt dreadfully impatient.
May 16. Saturday.—Mother and I don't think Miss Conway looks quite so strong and bright as when she first came. I wonder if anything is worrying her.
It is so strange that Maggie does not grow more fond of Miss Con. Mother and I think Miss Con delightful. And Ramsay is growing quite absurd. At first he used to say all sorts of hard and contemptuous things about her, as he does about almost everybody; but now he has turned right round, and he seems to think the ground scarcely good enough for her to tread on. But I don't suppose Miss Con has the least idea of his state of admiration, for he only gets red and awkward when he sees her. If she had, how she would laugh! She a girl of twenty-three, with the mind of a woman of thirty, as Uncle Tom says,—and he a backward boy of seventeen.
And yet I don't know whether she really would laugh,—at least it would not be unkindly.
June 17. Wednesday.—Maggie's little MS. has been sent back, as I felt sure it must be, if she wouldn't work it up more carefully. I am very sorry, for she is so disappointed. But the odd thing is, that she seems quite angry, too, with the publisher. I don't understand that, because of course he must be free to take or refuse books. And it always seems to me that one has just to learn what one can do, by trying. One trial doesn't settle the matter; but a good many trials would. And if one really had not the gift, if God really had not called one to the work,—ought one to be vexed?
Still, if I had failed instead of succeeding, I might not find it so easy to write like this.
July 7. Tuesday.—My book "Tom and Mary" is finished at last,—was finished last week, I mean: and I have been correcting hard ever since. I don't mean the MS. to have one single untidy page. Of course that means more copying, but it is worth while. The greatest difficulty is to think of a good title.