"Frances, take Mrs. Kennedy to the fern walk and show her the famous
'Newbury Bubble' among the rocks. I want to be rid of you both until
tea-time."

Frances and Mrs. Kennedy went to the fern walk and the beautiful
"Bubble"--a clear, round spring of amber-hued water set down in a cup
of rock overhung with ferns and beeches. It was a spot Frances had
always loved. She found herself talking freely to Mrs. Kennedy of her
hopes and plans. The older woman drew the girl out with tactful
sympathy until she found that Frances's dearest ambition was some day
to be a writer of books like Sara Beaumont.

"Not that I expect ever to write books like hers," she said hurriedly,
"and I know it must be a long while before I can write anything worth
while at all. But do you think--if I try hard and work hard--that I
might do something in this line some day?"

"I think so," said Mrs. Kennedy, smiling, "if, as you say, you are
willing to work hard and study hard. There will be a great deal of
both and many disappointments. Sara Beaumont herself had a hard time
at first--and for a very long first too. Her family was poor, you
know, and Sara earned enough money to send away her first manuscripts
by making a pot of jelly for a neighbour. The manuscripts came back,
and Sara made more jelly and wrote more stories. Still they came back.
Once she thought she had better give up writing stories and stick to
the jelly alone. There did seem some little demand for the one and
none at all for the other. But she determined to keep on until she
either succeeded or proved to her own satisfaction that she could make
better jelly than stories. And you see she did succeed. But it means
perseverance and patience and much hard work. Prepare yourself for
that, Frances, and one day you will win your place. Then you will look
back to the 'Newbury Bubble,' and you will tell me what a good
prophetess I was."

They talked longer--an earnest, helpful talk that went far to inspire
Frances's hazy ambition with a definite purpose. She understood that
she must not write merely to win fame for herself or even for the
higher motive of pure pleasure in her work. She must aim, however
humbly, to help her readers to higher planes of thought and
endeavour. Then and only then would it be worth while.

"Mrs. Kennedy is going to drive you to the station," said Grandmother
Newbury after tea. "I am much obliged to you, Frances, for giving up
the picnic today and coming to th