Oh, Michael Daragh, I can't stand it—poor little Daniel in a Lion's Den of broken faith, and scorn, and creeping death! What can I do?
J. V.
But it was well into October before the Irishman got the letter which he had been waiting for—the one which sent the color mounting gladly in his lean cheeks. It was not long, but it fairly sang with jubilance and the feel of it in his hand was warm.
On a Gold and Scarlet Afternoon.
Michael Daragh, I'm at work! Steadily, sanely, surely, at work again!
Long ago, before I began to run after strange gods, I got a story back from the New England Monthly—that Dean of Magazines in her sober brown frock with no jewels or adornments at all,—with a quite wonderful personal note. If I had followed it up, I do believe I'd have landed on that stern and rock-bound coast, but I went over to the flesh pots instead. Now I have made a stern and rock-bound compact with myself. I'm not coming back to New York, and you are not to write me a line, until I've written a tale that brown-gowned magazine will take. "Where there is no vision, the people perish," the Deacon thundered, at a meeting. I was very near to perishing, when you scolded me awake, Michael Daragh, M.D., Miracle Do-er, God save you kindly!
That vaudeville work—and I shall do more of it, some day—was like a fast and furious game of tennis under a scorching sun; now I'm delving in a dim, cool library.
I'm going to be as patient as a locust bridge-builder. I know that flocks of long envelopes are coming back, bringing their tales behind them, but one day I shall hear a jubilant note in the klip-klup of Lizzie's hoofs and Uncle Robert will hand me an envelope of bewitching smallness, with a tiny typed letter inside.... "It is with very great pleasure...."
Until that day break, and the shadows flee away——