One Saturday morning, some days subsequent to her visit to the

Grahams, Beulah set off for the business part of the city. She was

closely veiled, and carried under her shawl a thick roll of neatly

written paper. A publishing house was the place of her destination;

and, as she was ushered into a small back room, to await the leisure

of the gentleman she wished to see, she could not forbear smiling at

the novelty of her position and the audacity of the attempt she was

about to make. There she sat in the editor's sanctum, trying to

quiet the tumultuous beating of her heart. Presently a tall, spare

man, with thin, cadaverous visage, entered, bowed, took a chair, and

eyed her with a "what-do-you-want" sort of expression. His grizzled

hair was cut short, and stood up like bristles, and his keen blue

eyes were by no means promising, in their cold glitter. Beulah threw

off her veil and said, with rather an unsteady voice: "You are the editor of the magazine published here, I believe?"

He bowed again, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands at

the back of his head.

"I came to offer you an article for the magazine." She threw down

the roll of paper on a chair.

"Ah!--hem!--will you favor me with your name?"

"Beulah Benton, sir. One altogether unknown to fame."

He contracted his eyes, coughed, and said constrainedly: "Are you a subscriber?"

"I am."

"What is the character of your manuscript?" He took it up as he

spoke, and glanced over the pages.

"You can determine that from a perusal. If the sketch suits you, I

should like to become a regular contributor."

A gleam of sunshine strayed over the countenance, and the editor

answered, very benignly: "If the article meets with our approbation, we shall be very happy

to afford you a medium of publication in our journal. Can we depend

on your punctuality?"

"I think so. What are your terms?"

"Terms, madam? I supposed that your contribution was gratuitous,"

said he very loftily.

"Then you are most egregiously mistaken! What do you imagine induces

me to write?"

"Why, desire for fame, I suppose."

"Fame is rather unsatisfactory fare. I am poor, sir, and write to

aid me in maintaining myself."

"Are you dependent solely on your own exertions, madam?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry I cannot aid you; but nowadays there are plenty of

authors who write merely as a pastime, and we have as many

contributions as we can well look over."




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