t. John's wort, for he
had thrown it down in a straggling heap on the floor of the porch. "I'm
at work on--on a book," he said with a boyish blush.

"Yes," I replied, smiling. "Mrs. Hopper told me that there was 'an
orther,' in Wauchittic."

"And that was what Mrs. Bangs told me the other day!" he declared
audaciously. And then we both laughed with the foolish gaiety of youth,
that rids itself thus of embarrassment.

"It is my first book," he confessed.

"And mine," I said.

Our eyes met a little wistfully, as if each were striving to read
whether the other had gone through the same burning enthuiasms for work,
the same loving belief in its success, the same despondent hours when it
seemed an utter failure, devoid of sense or interest, and then, somehow,
we felt suddenly a mutual confidence, a sense that we knew each other
well, the instant _camaraderie_ of two voyagers who find that they have
sailed the same seas, passed through the same dangers, and stopped at
the same ports.

I heard Mrs. Hopper open the hall-door, caught a glimpse of her looking
out at us with satisfaction on her face, warm from the kitchen fire,
and heard her close it, with much elaboration, and, tip-toe heavily
away.

"Yes, this is my first book," he went on, as though we had not paused.
"Of course I have had experience in writing before, magazine sketches,
and that sort of thing, and beside that, I once had a mania for
newspaper work, and much to my mother's horror, I was really a reporter
on one of the city papers--_The Earth_."

"Circulation guaranteed over 380,000," I continued, rather ashamed of my
flippancy, although he laughed.

"Exactly. Well, after a time I had an offer to go on the editorial staff
of the _Eon_, through a friend who has influence with the management,
and it was just then I was taken ill with this typhoid fever that has
left me the wreck you see," he said, with a whimsically sad smile. "That
is not the worst, though," he went on, a shadow falling over his
upturned face, "I cannot explain it, although my doctor pretends to. I
had written--oh! say half-a-dozen chapters of this book before my
sickness. As soon as I began to be convalescent, I wanted to amuse
myself by going on with it. I had my plot roughly blocked out, my
characters were entirely distinct in my mind, yet when I took up my pen
again, I found I could not write connectedly. It was simply horrible. I
shall never forget that day. Of course I imagined