Father was very well pleased with the adventure.
"Now, Little Girl," he said, giving my hand a squeeze, as if it was the sign of a conspiracy, "don't say a word or give a hint to a living soul, not Ben or Sophie. We'll see what comes next week."
I laughed and nodded, and we crooked little fingers, and said, "Honor bright."
But oh, what a long week it was. I think if later on I had written a book and offered it to a publisher I couldn't have been more anxious. I looked over the back numbers, and it didn't seem as if the articles were truly any better, though some took up a wider range.
Those old papers were narrow and local. Boston, mayhap, might have begun intellectual, but there was too much work in Chicago in those early years to indulge in flights of poesy or literary evolution. But they were strong and earnest, full of boundless enterprise and ambition, and the romance was to come later. Indeed, the romance then outside of the real business was marrying, having a home, and counting on what the children would do in the next generation. They did not think to build their Rome in a day, but they could lay foundations, stretch out arms that would bring the great world in its grasp.
I counted the days. Father said not a word about it. And I could hardly wait until afternoon. Cold as it was, I hung about the door-step and then ran down to the sidewalk to meet the boy, who stared at me as if I was demented. I glanced down the outside—oh, there it was. There was a throb of joy in my heart and a rush of tears to my eyes. I hurried in and laid the paper on father's lap.
"Hello!" he ejaculated.
I went and mended the fire and stood there many minutes, it seemed to me.
"Well, they didn't take us to kindle the fire with, did they!" His tone was so light-hearted it was like the ringing of a joy bell, and it gave me a thrill.
"I'm a foolish old fellow and you're a foolish young thing, but I guess we enjoy this bit of print, and there's no one to say we shan't. But there's been lots of books and papers printed before we were thought of, and there will be after we are gone, and I s'pose each fellow will have a moment of pleasure, so why shouldn't we enjoy ours?"