ave you to show me?"

Thus encouraged I told him of _A Son of the Middle Border_.

He was interested. "Where is the manuscript? Is it complete?"

"It is. I have it with me at the hotel."

"Send it down to me," he said quickly, "I'll read it and give you a
verdict at once."

In an illogical glow of hope I hastened to fetch the manuscript, and in
less than two hours it was in his hands.

I speak of my hope as "illogical" for if the literary monthly of my own
publishers could not find a place for it, how could I reasonably expect
a hustling, bustling popular weekly like _Collier's_ to use it?

Nevertheless something in Sullivan's voice and manner restored my
confidence, and when I called on the editor of the _Century_ I was able
to assume the tone of successful authorship. The closer I got to my
market the more assured I became. I counted for something in New York.
My thirty years of effort were remembered in my favor.

On Tuesday Sullivan, who had been called to the West, wired me from
Chicago that _A Son of the Middle Border_ would make an admirable serial
and that his assistants would take the matter up with me. "I predict a
great success for it."

That night I sent a message to my wife in which I exultantly said,
"Rejoice! I've sold _The Middle Border_ to _Collier's Weekly_. Our
troubles are over for a year at least."

Two days later _Collier's_ took a short story at four hundred dollars
and the _Century_ gave me three hundred for an article on James A.
Herne, and when I boarded the train for Chicago the following week I was
not only four thousand dollars better off than when I came--I had
regained my faith in the future. My task was clearly outlined. For the
seventh time I set to work revising _A Son of the Middle Border_,
preparing it for serial publication.

* * * * *

My father, who knew that I had been writing upon this story for years,
stared at me in silent amazement when I told him of its sale. That the
editor of a great periodical should be interested in a record of the
migrations and failures of the McClintocks and Garlands was incredible.
Nevertheless he was eager to see it in print--and when in March the
first installment appeared, he read it with absorbed attention and mixed
emotions. "Aren't you a little hard on me?" he asked with a light in his
eyes which was half-humorous, half-resentful.

"I don't think so, Father," I replied. "You must admit you were a ste