free-handed. However, on the third evening
after her mother's burial, every corner of the house satisfied her.
Even her dusters and cleaning-cloths had been washed and gone to their
special corner of the kitchen drawer; and she had felt, that
afternoon, that she could comfortably arrange her paper and pencils on
the table of her own room.

She was eager to write. Her heart and brain burned with the thoughts
and feelings she longed to express. "Tomorrow," she said to
herself--"Tomorrow, I shall go on with my book." Three months
previously she had begun a story to be called "A Daughter of the Sea,"
but lately she had been obliged to lay it aside. She found "the bits
o' poetry," were all she could manage in the short intervals of time
that were her own.

My readers may reflect here, on the truth that there is no special
education for a writer. The man or woman who has anything to say to
the world, brings the ability to declare it with him. Then all the
accidents and events of life stimulate the power which dwells in the
heart and brain, and the happy gift speaks for itself. Christine had
been making up poetry ever since she could remember, and while yet a
child had been the favorite story-teller in all the social gatherings
at Culraine. And it is not unlikely that a good story-teller may turn
out to be a good story-writer.

About one-third of her first novel, "A Daughter of the Sea," was
completed, and now, with a happy resolution, she sat down to finish
it. She did not have the material to seek, she had only to recollect
and write down. The day passed with incredible swiftness, and early in
the evening Norman opened the door, and saw her sitting by the fire.
Her hands were clasped above her head, and there was the shadow of a
smile on her still face.

"O Norman!" she cried, "how glad I am to see you! Nobody has been here
since----"

"I know, dear. Folks hae thought it was the kinder thing to stop away,
and let you get the house in order."

"Maybe it was. Come in, and see it, now that everything is in its
place."

So Norman went through all the large, pleasant rooms with her, and
he could not help a sigh, as he contrasted them with his own untidy
and not over-cleanly house. Then they returned to the ordinary
living-room, and when they were seated, Norman lit his pipe, and
they talked lovingly of the mother who had gone away, and left her
earthly home full of sweet memories. They spoke in soft, tender
voices. Ch