nt her. She wasn't quite
resigned to being an old maid; but then she need not worry until she was
twenty-five. And when you came to that, half the relatives were fighting
for Miss Cynthia Blackfan; and Mr. Erastus Morgan had invited her over
to Paris to see the new Emperor, who was copying in every way his
granduncle who had ruled half Europe.

Then she would close the closet door and run blithely downstairs with a
bit of song. That was Miss Nan Underhill up there; and in her short
school-girl frock she was plain household Hanny.

But they had delightful times. Doctor Joe bought a new buggy, very wide
in the seat, and used to take her and Daisy out when the days were
pleasant. Then Charles and Josie came over evenings, or they went to
Mrs. Dean's, and talked and sang and discussed their favourite poems and
stories, and thought how rich the world was growing, and wondered how
their grandfathers and grandmothers had existed!

The little rue in the Underhills' cup became sweetened presently with
the balm of love and forbearance, that time or circumstances usually
brings about when truth and good sense are at the helm.

Matters had gone rather hard with Delia Whitney of late. In a certain
fashion, she had come to the parting of the intellectual ways. People
were as eager then as now to discover new geniuses. There were not so
many writing, and it was easier to gain a hearing. She had been
successful. She had been praised; her stories and poems were accepted,
published, and paid for. She had been made much of by her brother's
friends, and some of the literary women she had met.

She began to realise it was not altogether wandering at one's sweet
will, unless one had a garden of unfailing bloom in which to gather the
flowers of poetry, or even prose. There were greater heights than even
girlhood's visions. But there must be training and study to reach them,
and she had been lilting along in a desultory way, like a careless
child.

But had she any real genius? When she bent her whole mind to the
cultivation of every energy, what if she should find it was energy and
imagination merely? Her novel did not progress to her satisfaction.
Characters might be common-place; but there was to be force enough in
their delineation to keep the attention of the reader. They must be
clear-cut, vivid; and hers seemed all too much alike, with no salient
points.

"Do you suppose no one ever felt discouraged before?" asked Ben, with
his