home, and the poor thing's got nowhere to
go--nowhere in the wide world.

"How would Dorothy like to be a lonely orphan, with no husband, no
friends, and no job? She wouldn't like it much, but women never have any
sympathy for each other, nor for their husbands, either. I'd give twenty
dollars this minute not to have stroked Elaine's hand, and fifty not to
have had Dorothy see it, but there's no use in crying over spilt milk nor
in regretting hands that have already been stroked."

In search of diversion, he opened his letter, which was in answer to the
one he had written some little time ago, inquiring minutely, of an
acquaintance who was supposed to be successful, just what the prospects
were for a beginner in the literary craft.

"Dear Carr," the letter read. "Sorry not to have answered before, but I've
been away and things got mixed up. Wouldn't advise anybody but an enemy to
take up writing as a steady job, but if you feel the call, go in and win.
You can make all the way from eight dollars a year, which was what I made
when I first struck out, up to five thousand, which was what I averaged
last year. I've always envied you fellows who could turn in your stuff and
get paid for it the following Tuesday. In my line, you work like the devil
this year for what you're going to get next, and live on the year after.

"However, if you're bitten with it, there's no cure. You'll see magazine
articles in stones and books in running brooks all the rest of your life.
When you get your book done, I'll trot you around to my publisher, who
enjoys the proud distinction of being an honest one, and if he likes your
stuff, he'll take it, and if he doesn't, he'll turn you down so pleasantly
that you'll feel as though he'd made you a present of something. If you
think you've got genius, forget it, and remember that nothing takes the
place of hard work. And, besides, it's a pretty blamed poor book that
can't get itself printed these days.

"Yours as usual,
"C. J."

The communication was probably intended as encouragement, but the effect
was depressing, and at the end of an hour, Harlan had written only two
lines more in his book, neither of which pleased him.

Meanwhile, Dick was renewing his old acquaintance with Mrs. Smithers, much
to that lady's pleasure, though she characteristically endeavoured to
conceal it.