Middlebury register. (Middlebury, Vt.) 1886-1937, 1896-02-07

and as the time of our intended stay was
almost at an end mamma and decided to
accompany him.
at was Just after lunch. Ned and the
boys had gone skating and would not re-
tlrn before dark. We left tho hotel at
o'clock, and so | did not even say goodby
to Ned | expected never to see him again.
AT home was once moro in the midst
of the social whirl-life was just as full of
happy events, friends were just as kind
but something was different 1t was my
self l had no heart in anything that
did. Alas, | realized it fully now; had
left my heart at Lakewood l tried to
bury my secret and strove to enter into tho
life that was mine and to be happy in the
attentions that had once pleased me.
81 devoted two hours each morning to
my studies. Ned had told me that had
literary talent, and that | ought to write.
| determined to try. | did try. But, oh,
dear me, what failure l made of i'll If 1
chose IA pathetic tale 1t set me to dream
ing, and in my dreams l wandered far
from my plot, and my pathos grew insipid
/ | wrote in lighter VCin-Of knights and
ladies, happy in love and beauty, but when
my hero held his lady hand and strovc to
tell her of his passion, though his heart
were fun to ovciiiowing, all that his lips
] ~
my efforts to aid him were of no avail
What soulle-s lifcless little stories they
were, 40 ho sdrc Of course they WIRE re
turned. | grew heartily sick Of seeing long
envelopes and of reading stercutN lrd no
ticcs Of articles being not avHl..Illr.'
| knew the little printed slips word for
word, and generally consigned them to
my waStrhaskct unread. ! could have
cried my heart uut Nnn -arUuiutmtut
1t was not the rrmlu, ration thai cared
about, but | was livucd To think that |
had failed, failed. failed.
Il tried again and again. / wrote of
spring-of apple blossoms and daiTodils
of swallows and orioles, hut my flowers
grew stflly, and my swallows were not at
all glad that summer was at hand
But there came day when the long
envelopes contained something more than
my poor little story and the tiresOme UNI
available notice-it contained note 1t
was from an editor in New York, who had
somehow been the chosen object of my
Importantly, II kindly man, it seemed,
whose sweet patience had stood the test of
my endeavors.
The note ran something like this Il
wrote under a nom de plume): My dear
Miss -, am sorry to return your story.
1t has many fine points The plot is ex-
cellent, and the language more than COM
monty good, but it is-if you will allow
me to say it-droadfully stiff and unnat-
ural. Could you not manage to throw a
little more heart into your stories? Sup
pose you take some one character, or in
cident, or place that interests you person
ally, and write about it just as though
you mean it all. And the note was signed
simply The Editor.
o. sat for some time pondering over the
note. A great struggle was taking place
within me. Should l do it2 Could l en-
dure to see in cold black and white this
sweet, painful secret that was at once my
delight and my torturer At last resolved
l would throw more heart-my whole
heart-into my story. l would feel and
mean it all
Il conceived brilliant idea would
just run down to Aunt Harriets for u
couple of weeks. where | should be away
from social temptations, and where in per
feet quiet my story might grow.
"Oh, those precious wecks-so full of
pain and pleasure, of happy memories, of
signs and moods, of life and love! My
story grew-nay, it ceased To he "a story
at all. | was not writing. | was thinking,
living, loving, far away in an ideal world
where was happy, oh, SO happy, and L
merely jotted it down, just for sweet mem
DRY 5 sake.
And when had finished my tale. how
real it seemed So real, in fact, that
wondered whether "a strangers eye might
not even read between its lines and guess
my secret
should | send itY Yes, what matter I!
The world would never know. There was
only my nom de plume. My hero was not
NAI
French were disguised in music, and Lake
wood would never recognize itself among
the snowcad hills of New England. So
sent my story. Where do you suppose9
To Ned, Right plump into the hands of
Ned.
"Jessl" exclaimed She was laughing
and for the life of me | could not tell
whether to believe her or to give her u
sound shaking for screwing my curiosity
to its utmost limits only to make fun of
me.
"Yes, to Ned, J." Jess continued, though,
of course, / did not mean it so. | ad-
dressed my manuscript, as usual, to The
Editor, but what q little world this is
after all! The editor and Ned were one
My story was accepted, and it brought
IA great prce-it brought me Ned's heart
Love, that had pecped over my shoulder
ana guided my pen as wrote, now peeped
over Ned's shoulder and whispered in his
ear, in his heart, i'm his soul, and he has
told me many times how that soft whisper
seemed to food all his lonely life with
sunshine and to fill all TIE air about him
with the song of birds. Through every
disguise he had known me. Dear Ned, he
had loved me from the first, and had new
er guessed it, | was rich, and he was poor,
with perhaps years of struggling before
him, and he was too noble to speak. But
IA happy turn in his life's fortune brought
this editorial position within his grasp.
From that time he felt that perhaps some
day he would meet me again, and per-
haps- But there what's tho use of per
hapsing?' For all know, we might have
been waiting and longing and signing yet
II l hadn't made love first-which of
course you'll allow that did"