Ruth glanced around her little dark room and smiled. “I would rather, instead, that an artist would take a sketch of my room, now,” said she; “that little black stove, where I have so often tried in vain to thaw my frozen fingers—that rickety old bed—the old deal table, with its yellow bowl of milk—that home-made carpet—those time-worn chairs—and then you, my little bright fairy, in the foreground;” and she pushed back the soft, glossy curls from Nettie’s fair brow.
“No, no,” said Ruth, “better reserve the niche destined for ‘Floy’ for some writer to whom ambition is not the hollow thing it is to me.
“Well, what have we here? Another letter?” Ruth broke the seal of letter No. 3, and read:
“Dear Madam:
“I am a poor devil, and worse editor; nevertheless, I have started a paper. If you will but allow me to put your name on it as Assistant Editress, I am sure it will go like a locomotive. If, in addition to this little favor, you could also advance me the sum of one hundred dollars, it would be an immense relief to your admirer,
“John K. Staples.
“P. S.—Be sure you direct to John K. Staples, as there is another John Staples in this place, who is a great rascal.
“J. K. S.”
“Well!” exclaimed Ruth, “I did not believe I should ever be astonished again, but then—I had not heard from Mr. Staples. But here is another letter. Let us see what the contents of No. 4 are.”