“Ah!” said I, “let us put the pieces together, Charley, and see how she got on.” And Charley and I made for the basket. The result was a battle royal, at the end of which the shreds had become bits of the size of postage-stamps, mingled with which, all over the room, lay the ruins of the basket.
“You give it up, then?”
“Not for a moment,” replied she, panting.
A week passed before Alice summoned us to hear her chapter read. Not with a view to criticism, however; for it was agreed that neither Charley nor I should utter one word, either of praise or censure. Whatever she produced was to be printed just as she wrote it; and here it is, word for word, just as it came from her pen.
And if any reader, during its perusal, shall come to doubt whether it be, in truth, her production; if he shall fail to discover one solitary trait of our merry-sparkling, laugh-compelling enchantress, it will be but another proof that what people are has nothing to do with what they write. If, for example, the reader shall find this work dull—but enough.
Moving nearer the lamp, Alice read with a resolute spirit but faltering voice as follows:
CHAPTER LI.
BY ALICE FROBISHER, LOVE-EDITOR.
They stood face to face, these two; he with outstretched hand to receive the goblet which she held.
“I’d rather help myself.”
“Why? But of course, if you prefer it.” And he stood aside.