Her eyes brimmed with tears—her lips quivered. She could not help it. Pride was hopelessly submerged in the bitterness of her disappointment. She felt exactly like a candle that somebody had blown out.
“What are you crying for?” demanded Mr. Carpenter.
Emily blinked away the tears and tried to laugh.
“I—I’m sorry—you think it’s no good—” she said.
Mr. Carpenter gave the desk a mighty thump.
“No good! Didn’t I tell you there were ten good lines? Jade, for ten righteous men Sodom had been spared.”
“Do you mean—that—after all—” The candle was being relighted again.
“Of course, I mean. If at thirteen you can write ten good lines, at twenty you’ll write ten times ten—if the gods are kind. Stop messing over months, though—and don’t imagine you’re a genius either, if you have written ten decent lines. I think there’s something trying to speak through you—but you’ll have to make yourself a fit instrument for it. You’ve got to work hard and sacrifice—by gad, girl, you’ve chosen a jealous goddess. And she never lets her votaries go—not even when she shuts her ears forever to their plea. What have you there?”
Emily, her heart thrilling, handed him her Jimmy-book. She was so happy that it shone through her whole being with a positive radiance. She saw her future, wonderful, brilliant—oh, her goddess would listen to her—“Emily B. Starr, the distinguished poet”—“E. Byrd Starr, the rising young novelist”—
She was recalled from her enchanting reverie by a chuckle from Mr. Carpenter. Emily wondered a little uneasily what he was laughing at. She didn’t think there was anything funny in that book. It contained only three or four of her latest stories—The Butterfly Queen, a little fairy tale; The Disappointed House, wherein she had woven a pretty dream of hopes come true after long years; The Secret of the Glen, which, in spite of its title, was a fanciful little dialogue between the Spirit of the
