"My narrative is full of things far from light," I returned. "I didn't say they were heavy, you know. That is quite another thing."
"I am afraid you mean generally uninteresting. But there are parents who might make them useful, and the rest of my readers could skip them."
"I only mean that a narrative, be it ever so serious, must not intrench on the moral essay or sermon."
"It is much too late, I fear, to tell me that. But, please, remember I am not giving the precepts as of my own discovery, though I have sought to verify them by practice, but as what they are,—my father's."
He did not seem to see the bearing of the argument.
"I want my book to be useful," I said. "As a mother, I want to share the help I have had myself with other mothers."
"I am only speaking from the point of art," he returned.
"And that's a point I have never thought of; any farther, at least, than writing as good English as I might."
"Do you mean to say you have never thought of the shape of the book your monthly papers would make?"
"Yes. I don't think I have. Scarcely at all, I believe."