of the letters were from
women; some of the letters were silly and fatuous enough, but others
were of an intelligence which was none the less penetrating for being
emotional rather than critical. These maids or matrons, whoever or
whichever they were, knew wonderfully well what the author would be
at, and their interest in his story implied a constant if not a single
devotion. Now and then Verrian was tempted to answer one of them, and
under favor of his mother, who had been his confidant at every point
of his literary career, he yielded to the temptation; but one day there
came a letter asking an answer, which neither he nor his mother felt
competent to deal with. They both perceived that they must refer it to
the editor of the magazine, and it seemed to them so important that they
decided Verrian must go with it in person to the editor. Then he must
be so far ruled by him, if necessary, as to give him the letter and
put himself, as the author, beyond an appeal which he found peculiarly
poignant.

The letter, which had overcome the tacit misgivings of his mother as
they read it and read it again together, was from a girl who had perhaps
no need to confess herself young, or to own her inexperience of the
world where stories were written and printed. She excused herself with
a delicacy which Verrian's correspondents by no means always showed for
intruding upon him, and then pleaded the power his story had over her as
the only shadow of right she had in addressing him. Its fascination,
she said, had begun with the first number, the first chapter, almost the
first paragraph. It was not for the plot that she cared; she had read
too many stories to care for the plot; it was the problem involved. It
was one which she had so often pondered in her own mind that she felt,
in a way she hoped he would not think conceited, almost as if the story
was written for her. She had never been able to solve the problem; how
he would solve it she did not see how she could wait to know; and here
she made him a confidence without which, she said, she should not have
the courage to go on. She was an invalid, and her doctor had told her
that, though she might live for months, there were chances that she
might die at any moment suddenly. He would think it strange, and it
was strange that she should tell him this, and stranger still that she
should dare to ask him what she was going to ask. The story had yet four
months to run, and she had begun