The Roanoke daily times. (Roanoke, Va.) 1895-1897, 1896-02-09
THE ROANOKE TIMES SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 8.

only the boys tutor, who had helped mo
very much.
THAT afternoon papa received tole-
gram which mnde it necessary for him to
return to New York within u few hours,
and as tho time of our intended stay was
almost at an end mamma and 1 decided to
accompany him.
1t was just after lunch. Ned and tho
boys had como sknting and would not re-
turn before dark. Wo loft tho hotel at {
O'Clock, and so did not even say goodby
to Ned l expected never to SEQ him again
:" "A home l was once moro in tho midst
nf tho social whirl-lifo was just as full of
happy events, friends were just es kind
but something was different. It was my
self. had no heart in anything that I
did Alas, l realized it fully now; had
left my heart at Lakewood 1 tried to
bury my secret and strove to enter into tho
life that was mine and to DO happy in the
attentions That had once pleased me-
devoted two hours each morning to
my studios. Ned had told me that had
literary talent, and that I ought to write.
determined to try. did try. But, oh,
dear mo, what failure made of It'll If
chose pathetic tale, it set me to dream
ing, and in my dreams I wandered far
from my plot, and my pathos grew insipid.
l wrote in lighter vein-of knights and
ladies, happy in love and beauty, but when
my hero held his lady's hand and strove to
tell hor Of his passion, though his heart
were full to overlooking, oil that his lips
could utter was Amo, Amas, Amat, and
my efforts to hid him were of no avail.
What soullcss, lifeless little stories they
wero, to be sure. OF course they were re-
turned. grew heartily sick of seeing long
envelopes and of reading stereotyped no.
tices OF articles being mot available
knew the little printed slips word for
word, and generally consigned them to
my wastebasket unread. I could have
cried my heart out with disappointment.
1t was not the remuneration that cared
about, but was piqued to think that
had failed, failed, failed.
II tried again and again. wrote of
spring-of apple blossoms and daffodils,
OF swallows and orioles, but my flowers
grew stiffly, and my swallows were not ut
all glad that summer was Mt hand.
But there came a day when tho long
envelopes contained something moro than
my poor littlo story and tho tiresome I'M
available notice-it contained n note. It
was from an editor in New York, who had
somehow been tho chosen object of my
opportunity, kindly man, it soemed
whose sweet patience had stood the test of
my ondeavors.
Tho note ran something like this Il
wrote under n nom do plume): My dear
Miss -, am sorry to return your story
1t has many fine points. Tho plot is OK
cellent, and the language more than COM
monty good, but it is-if you will allow
me to say it-dreadfully stiff and unnat-
ural. Could you not manage to throw O
little moro heart into your storiesP Sup
pose you take some one character, or in
oidont, or place that interests you person.
nj lv md oh, IL
you moan it ALL And tho note was signed
simply, The Editor
II snt for some time pondering over the
note. great struggle was taking place
within mo. Should 1 do itp Could on
duro to see In cold black and white this
sweet, painful secret that was at once my
delight and my tortured AT last resolved
would throw more heart-my whole
heart-into my story. I would feel and
moan it all.
II conceived brilliant idea. I would
just run down to Aunt Harriet's for a
couple of weeks, where l should be away
from social temptations, and where in per
feet quiet my story might grow.
"Oh those precious wceks-so full of
pnin and pleasure, of happy memories, of
signs and moods, of life and love! My
story grew-nay, it ceased to be "a story
at oil. was not writing was thinking,
living, loving, far away in on idcnl world
where was happy, oh, SO happy, and I
merely jotted it down, just for sweet NOM
ory's sake.
"And when I had finished my tale, how
real 1T seemed! So real, in fact, that
wondered whether strangers eye might
not oven read between its lines and guess
my y.s secret: !, =.
Nrnr I-,,@
only my nom de plume. My hero was not
Ned, nor iny heroine Jess. Latin and
French were disguised in music, and Lake
wood would never recognize itself among
the snowclad hills of New England. So
1 sent my story. Where do you suppose?
To Ned. Right plump into tho hands of
Ned"
''Jess!" exclaimed. Sho was laughing,
and for tho life of mo 1 could not tell
whether to bolievo her or to give her a
sound shaking for scrowing my curiosity
to its utmost limits only to make fun of
mo.
"Yes, to Ncd," Jess continued, "thouph,
OF course, l did not mean 1t so 1 nd
dressed my manuscript, as usual, to The
Editor, but what little world this is,
after all The editor and Ned were one.
My story was accepted, and 1t brought
great price-it brought me Ned's heart
Love, that had peeped over my shoulder
and guided my pen as wrote, now popped
over Ned's shoulder and whispered in his
ear, in his heart, in his soul, and he has
told me many times how that soft whisper
seemed to flood all his lonely life with
sunshine and to fill oil the air about him
with the song of birds. Through every
disguise he Ind known me. Dear Ned, he
had loved me from the first, and had new
or guessed 1t. was rich, and no was poor,
with perhaps years OF struggling before
him, and ho was too noble to speak. But