The Republican., 1905-02-16

considered in any other light.
n. But he was considered. ana a,a.d
cdpious tears at that
Why, my child" the banker said
Softening under his daughters gr.cf.
he hasn't dollar to his name. IL
can't even manage for one. to say
nothing of two. He is living at this
moment on borrowed capital. with no
reasonable hope of being able to pay it
back"
"oh, yes. he has" Alviya answered
confidently. Il know al about that
$500. and you were a dear. good papa
to let him have it. He'll pay it back
you'll see, and with good interest. Just
wait till his novel comes out. Oh.
papa, if you only knew how grateful
he is to your
Grateful or ungrateful, my dear"
said Mr.. Barton, Il don't believe he
will ever pay it. How many of the
novels written ever see daylight? Not
one iii a thousand. And of those that
are published not one in Il hundred
yields anything for the author"
.SssBut Edgar is different" the daugh-
ter persisted. Il am sure it will sue
ceed. Oh, | wish you could hear him
read it! You would say so yourself"
She regaled her father with portions
Of it that she had learned by heart
literally by heart. And her beautiful
trust i'll the conquering power of the
man she loved warmed Mr.. Barton
even more than the wine at the club
dinner had done. To avoid being led
to do something sentimentally foolish
again he went away to think alone
And the wise result of his meditations
was that he must convince his daugh-
ter rather than rule her against her
convictions.
Ninslow's note would be due in less
than month, and the banker knew
enough Of the situation to believe that
it would not be paid at maturity. If it
were not, then Alviva herself might see
the matter in a more reasonable light
At any rate, she would be likely to ac-
cept the compromise of postpOnement
And there was hope in even that.
1t was st. Valentines day, but Edgar
Wnslow, standing in the morning by
his hall bedroom window, was thinking
of something more important than pa
per hearts. For weeks he had waited
Ill painful anxiety for the verdict of
the publisher to whom lie had submit
ted his novel. Day after day he had
watched the postman come and go,
leaving nothing for him. On the 10th
of February he had written an urgent
letter to the publisher begging him to
render his decision before the 10Th.
for thought he. with the book ac-
cepted | can raise money on my pros
poets, and Mr.. Barton must be prompt
ly paid" Now it was the 14th. and
still no answer had come.
a trilling whistle sounded some
where up the street Edgar raised his
sash and leaned out at the window.
Yes, the postman was coming his way.
Would he pass? No: he turned in and
rang the basement bell. The young
author closed the window and FASTENED
to the head of the stairs. The house
maid was coming up. How slowly she
plodded! Winslow ran down to meet
her calling over the banister, ANY
thing for me, Nary"
yes. Mr.. WinsIow, You an me is
the only ones that's got valentines. |
guess Lookw She had taken a gaudy
comic from the envelope addressed
to herself and was studying the verse
banpath the hi6aOuS picfura
Edgar, all impatience, took the two
letters addressed to him and, with
kindly word to Mary, sprang joyously
up the stairs and shut himself in his
room. With trembling fingers he tore
open the envelope bearing the publish
er's return card. The letter was short
and to the point. The manuscript. the
publisher regretted to say, was mot
available" 1t would be returned by ex-
press that day.
For long time Edgar stood looking
vacantly out at the deserted street,
with its deep drifts of snow, from
which fitful gusts of wind swept up
thin white clouds and hurled them hiss
ing here and there. But the desolation
in his breast was bleaker than that of
the scene outside. He had done his
best and failed. That was the deaden-
ing thought. lie had put his very soul
into this story-yes, and more; he had
put somewhat of Alviva's beautiful
soul into it, for ever since he had
known her she had been not only his
inspiration, but also the unconscious
model of all that was lovely in his fem
mime creations. True. the limitations
of language had confined him to the
merest suggestion Of those finer feel
!ngs to which he thrilled as he wrote.
but he had done his best, and under
lhe most favorable conditions possible.
If this story was not worthy of publi-
cation he could not hope ever to write
one that would be.
And Alviva! Was it farewell to her
also? From, the depths of his despair
he tried to look the situation honestly
in the face Must she not now lose her
confidence in his power to win the
world. that simple. ioyouS confidence