She opened the letter eagerly, and as she did so, stray words caught her eye,—“undoubted talent,”—“unquestionable success,” etc. She turned to the first page and read:—
Dear little Girl,—For you are a little girl to me, and always will be, in spite of your twenty-one years,—I have something to tell you which cannot wait until I reach home. It is also somewhat of a confession, and I am sure that you will absolve me when you have read this.
I wonder if you have realized how very entertaining your letters have been, and what a godsend they were to me in this tedious place. They were so clever that I could not help reading them to a few of the friends whom I have made here. One of them is Hugh S. Black, whom I have often mentioned, you remember, and who has been slowly recovering from an attack of nervous prostration. He grew very much interested in your letters,—so much so, that I had not the heart to refuse to read them. I told him of your desire to write, and of the piles of rejected psychological studies which have been mounting up on your desk. In fact, you told him, yourself, although you were not aware of it. We have often talked you over, and he thinks that you have undoubted talent, and can gain unquestionable success in writing for publication, if you will be willing to attempt the kind of things that lie within your own experience. Mr. Black said the other day, “Your girl has wit, humor, an excellent power of description, the faculty of seeing things as they are, and of describing them from an original point of view. Why won’t she write stories or sketches dealing with every-day life, instead of such nonsense as ‘The Effect of Imagination on the Habits of the Child’?”
This morning, Mr. Black asked me if I would not request you to read over your letters and change them into proper form for a story, which he will be glad to publish serially in his magazine, if the finished product meets with his approval. This is a splendid opportunity for you, little daughter, and I advise you to grasp it.
Are you disappointed to find that your talents do not lie along the psychological paths of lofty, intellectual labor? Does this story of your experiences of one summer seem too trivial for your effort? I think not, my dear, if the change in the tone of your letters can be depended upon for inference. We shall talk this over when I am once more at home, and can relieve my brave, strong girl of the burdens which she has borne for four long months.
There was more in the letter, but Barbara did not read it. She danced about the hall with such abandon that her father opened his office door, and regarded her with amazement.
“Has my housekeeper taken leave of her senses?” he asked affectionately.
“On the contrary,” returned Barbara, saucily, “she has just regained them. Father dear, I realize that we must not all aspire to high tragedy or classic sublimity. High comedy seems to be more in my line.”
Her father looked at her with his eyes softening more and more. “Come in here,” he said, and closed the door behind them.