"Yes," says she, "and its readers, too."
"Cousin E. E.," says I, "you slander the grandest, the purest, the most sublime people on the earth."
"Do I?" says she, nodding her head and laughing. "Wait and see."
"Remember—you are speaking of authors, the first and purest aristocracy known to our free nation."
"No; I speak of would-be authors—guerillas in literature—men and women of erratic ability, who adore inspiration and scorn work; for authorship, I am told, and believe, requires the hardest work of any calling in the world."
"I'm afraid it does," said I, drawing a long breath, "but then such work brings its own prompt payment. The power to write is happiness in itself."
"But what has this to do with Pleasure Bay?" says Dempster; "we mean to go there—not to Bohemia."
"Just so," says I, a-tying on my bonnet.
We got into Dempster's carriage, and after a delightful drive, we came down on the edge of a little bay, with green grass growing close down to the shore, and great, tall trees clumped here and there all around it.
I was so charmed with the scenery that I didn't realize where we were till the carriage stopped before a white house, with a long wooden stoop in front, when we got out and walked right away down to the shore, where a plank platform ran out from the land, and a cunning little boat, with white sails, lay dipping up and down like a duck in the water.