I opened the package, and read from a printed slip.
“The publishers regret that their list of books for the coming year is already so large that they are obliged to return your interesting manuscript.”
The following P. S. was added: “The criticism of one of our readers is enclosed, as it is thought that the writer may possibly find a valuable suggestion in it.”
I handed the enclosed scrap of blue paper to Octavia, and she read aloud: “A commonplace story, not without interest, although of somewhat stilted and old-fashioned diction. The author’s material is incidentally derived from books rather than from life. She would do better if she should make use of her every-day experiences of life in writing, and not go beyond her own environment.”
“I have found that out for myself,” said Octavia, quickly. “Experience and publishers’ readers sometimes point to the same conclusion, it seems! To think of my little kindergarten stories and jingles promising to be a real success—that, with the aid of Estelle’s bunchy babies! More than half the success, I am sure, will be hers. And if ever I write another word I will look to Palmyra for my material!”
We were still talking over the joy and the wonder of this good fortune, and I had just suggested that Cyrus must be told at once, that he might at least have the practical comfort of knowing that we could all take care of ourselves, when a voice called, at the foot of the stairs:
“May I come up?”
“Of course you may,” returned Estelle, for it was Alice Yorke.
And Alice came up with her cheeks so vividly aglow that I felt like warning her against running up-stairs; but there was such a chattering that I couldn’t. And when one came to look closely at her one saw that her eyes were shining in a soft and misty fashion, as if she were deeply moved. But at the time Estelle was pouring out upon her the tale of the delightful double success, and it was no wonder, I thought, that she looked so. Alice was so very sympathetic.
But before long it occurred to me, suddenly, that she was, in spite of her looks, a little absent-minded; as if she might have a tale of her own to tell, and a sudden suspicion seized me.