tity of already accepted manuscripts."

"How provoking!" cried Katherine. "But come away; the drawing-room is
cooler; let us go there and talk things over."

Mrs. Liddell accepted the suggestion, and sank into an arm-chair, while
her daughter let down the blinds, and then placed herself on a low
ottoman opposite her.

There was a short silence; then Mrs. Liddell sighed and began: "I
counted so much on that short story for ready money! Skinner always pays
directly he has published. Now I do not know what to do. If I take it
back I may fail to dispose of it, yet I cannot wait. But the novel--that
is the worst disappointment of all. I suppose it was foolish, but I felt
_sure_ about that."

"Of course you did," cried Katherine, eagerly. "It is an excellent
story."

"It is not worse than many Santley brings out," resumed Mrs. Liddell;
"but one is no judge of one's own work. It was with reluctance I offered
it to _The Family Friend_, and you see--" her voice faltered, and she
stopped abruptly.

Katherine knew the tears were in her eyes and swelling her heart. She
restrained the impulse to throw her arms round her; she feared to
agitate her mother; rather she would help her self-control.

"Well, dear, I am no great judge, but I am quite sure that such a story
as yours must succeed sooner or later. So we will be patient."

"Ah! but, Katie, the landlord and the butcher will not wait, and, my
child, I have only about five pounds. I made too sure of success for I
did so well last year. Then Madame de Corset will soon be sending in her
bill for that famous dress of Ada's, and she will want the money she
lent me."

"Then Madame de Corset must wait," said Katherine, firmly. "Ada is
really your debtor. Where could she live at so small a cost as with you?
Where could she be so free to run about without a thought for the
children? What has become of her? Couldn't she stay with Cecil on his
birthday?"

"She is gone to luncheon with the Burnetts. It is as well to keep up
with them; their influence might be useful to the boys hereafter; but I
do wish I could pay her."

"I wish you could, for it would make you happier; but she really owes
you ten pounds and more."

"What shall I do about that novel? If I could get two hundred--even one
hundred--pounds for it, I should do well. I began to hope I might make
both ends meet with my pen. Oh, Katie dear, I am ashamed of myself, but
for the first time in my life I feel beaten. I fe