'is argimints, an'
'e wink to the p'int, too!"

In spite of his unique entrance into the world and his precarious
journey, Blink was a vigorous young chicken, with what mammy was pleased
to call "a good proud step an' knowin' eyes."

Three months passed. The long, dull summer was approaching, and yet
Evelyn had found no regular employment. She had not been idle. Sewing
for the market folk, decorating palmetto fans and Easter eggs, which
mammy peddled in the big houses, she had earned small sums of money from
time to time. In her enforced leisure she found opportunity for study,
and her picturesque surroundings were as an open book.

Impressions of the quaint old French and Spanish city, with its motley
population, were carefully jotted down in her note-book. These first
descriptions she afterwards rewrote, discarding weakening detail,
elaborating the occasional triviality which seemed to reflect the true
local tint--a nice distinction, involving conscientious hard work. How
she longed for criticism and advice!

A year ago her father, now usually dozing in his chair while she worked,
would have been a most able and affectionate critic; but now--She
rejoiced when a day passed without his asking for her mother, and
wondering why she did not come.

And so it was that in her need of sympathy Evelyn began to read her
writings, some of which had grown into stories, to mammy. The very
exercise of reading aloud--the sound of it--was helpful. That mammy's
criticisms should have proven valuable in themselves was a surprise, but
it was even so.

II

"A pusson would know dat was fanciful de way hit reads orf, des like a
pusson 'magine some'h'n' what ain't so."

Such was mammy's first criticism of a story which had just come back,
returned from an editor. Evelyn had been trying to discover wherein its
weakness lay.

Mammy had caught the truth. The story was unreal. The English seemed
good, the construction fair, but--it was "_fanciful_."

The criticism set Evelyn to thinking. She laid aside this, and read
another manuscript aloud.

"I tell yer, honey, a-a-a pusson 'd know you had educatiom, de way you
c'n fetch in de dictionary words."

"Don't you understand them, mammy?" she asked, quickly, catching another
idea.

"Who, me? Law, baby, I don't crave ter on'erstan' all dat granjer. I des
ketches de chune, an' hit sho is got a glorified ring."

Here was a valuable hint. She must simplify her style. The tide of
po