The Baltimore County union. [volume] (Towsontown, Md.) 1865-1909, 1905-02-04
CRITICISM AT PAR.
BY FLORA srEwARr EMORY.

clicked vlc1OuSly, Here I've almost
filled a scrap book with flattering
notices of your work and doubt if
you have even so much as glanced at
them
The girl referred to opened her eyes
slowly. She had been indulging in
a day-dream, and was half uncon-
scious of her friends presence.
II thank you, dear" she said; 4
appreciate it all, you and the editors
and the critics, only-only-"
"What is it, Florence?" her friend
asked softly, going over to her and
stroking her smooth brow. "You
are not grieving because"
mo, no." Florence said hastily,
interrupting Ethels question. ''I
was thinking how useless it was after
all, now l have succeeded. l haven t
really succeeded, you know; my
work is no better than it was before
before Mr.. Traveas took me up.
have gained recognition, perhaps,
bnt since hope is killed 1 have lost
ambition. One time l thought I
could reach the goal by merit alone /;
it seems such long, long time ago. !"
Ethel's eyes rested lovingly on the
small form before her.
Don't talk that way, dear; it
sounds SO old, and you are such a
child, after all. You must wear your
prettiest dress tonight you haven't
forgotten that we expect company,
have you?"
Florence frowned. eyes, had
forgotten queer, too, for I don't
usually forget disagreeable things" )"
Ethel closed the book of clippings
impatiently. "You always are ehorrid
when Mr.. Travers is coming" she
said. "You are the most provoking
girl 1 ever knew
you've said that once before J;
quite lately, too," Florence said,
smiling, and the repetition of
word, phrase, or sentence causes tito
lose its force aud marks the author as
an amateur"
Good feeling was again established,
and the two friends, the artist and
author, began discussing what they
should wear that evening. More
than Mr.. Travers were expected. He
had written Florence a note that
morning, saying he would bring a
couple of friends, both editors, and
hoped she would be her own charming
self.
''Who else did he suppose I'd be?"
she asked, in vexed tone.
."You know you have not been as
entertaining lately as you used to be-"
Ethel had answered.
If anyone had doubted Florence's S
being amiable that evening, he was
happily disappointed. She was un-
usually vivacious and bright; she
sang and recited without a second re-
quest and Mr.. Travers felt anew
all the intense love he had experienced
when he first knew her two years be-
fore. His friends were delighted with
her, and tried to make arrangements
with her to send them some of her
work. She laughingly refused to give
a definite answer, pleading as her ex-
cuse that it was no time to talk shop.
She had not forgotten the many times
they had both returned manuscript
to her before-in that time not so
long in reality.
The next mornings mail brought
the usual number of letters and
papers. Ethel tore open the papers
first. Eagerly Florence watched her.
Ethel noticed it, and her heart sank.
ooh dear !" she thought. "Is it
always to be the same? hoped last
night she had forgotten.
'You are slow this morning." "
Florence said, feigning indifference.
"Is there copy of The Wave there?"
she continued, a catch in her voice
betraying her anxiety.
Her friend shook her head. Flor
ence rose hastily and left the room.
Ethel watched her closely, saw the
tears spring to her eyes, heard the
unconscious sob, and her own eyes
filled with tears of sympathy.
eff only / could thaw out that
chunk of human ice, I'd do it if I
lost my self-respect," she thought,
angrily remembering how persistently
certain critic had ignored the lite
rary work of his childhood's sweet
heart. He ought to know she
would appreciate his notice more
than all others put together, and
even if it's not his style he might
condescend to say something"
More days came and went. The
scrap book was quite full now, and
the little love stories became sadder
and sadder. The simple pathos of
them grew more and more intense,
and they seemed to touch the hearts
of her readers, as if the heart of the
writer was breaking and the readers s
ached in return. Mr.. Travers called
less often, and Ethel wondered il
Florence had sent him away.
X X X X X
In a pleasant, CHEEKY room de-
cidedly glum-looking man sat, his
feet firmly placed on the floor instead
of resting several inches above his
head as was their usual wont. Be.
J fore him lay a pile of books and
periodicals. He ought to have beer
busy, instead of idly dreaming, fol
he was the critic on The Wave, New
York's most popular and high-class
review paper.
81 wish dared write what I fee
about it p' he said to himself. "She
| wouldn't care, of course, but very