e recognition of his talent, "I don't know anything about railroads
--how they are run, cost of building, prospect of traffic, engineering
difficulties, all that--nothing whatever."

"So much the better. It is a literary work I want, not a brag about the
road or a description of its enterprise. You just take the line as your
scene. Let the story run on that. The company, don't you see, must not
in any way be suspected with having anything to do with it, no mention of
its name as a company, no advertisement of the road on a fly-leaf or
cover. Just your own story, pure and simple."

"But," said Philip, more and more astonished at this unlooked-for
expansion of the literary field, "I could not embark on an enterprise of
such magnitude."

"Oh," said Mr. Ault, complacently, "that will be all arranged. Just a
pleasure trip, as far as that goes. You will have a private car, well
stocked, a photographer will go along, and I think--don't you? a
water-color artist. You can take your own time, stop when and where you
choose--at the more stations the better. It ought to be profusely
illustrated with scenes on the line--yes, have colored plates, all that
would give life and character to your story. Love on a Special, some
such title as that. It would run like oil. I will arrange to have it as
a serial in one of the big magazines, and then the book would be bound to
go. The company, of course, can have nothing to do with it, but I can
tell you privately that it would rather distribute a hundred thousand
copies of a book of good literature through the country than to encourage
the railway truck that is going now.

"I shouldn't wonder, Mr. Burnett, if the public would be interested in
having the Puritan Nun take that kind of a trip." And Mr. Ault ended his
explanation with an interrogatory smile.

Philip hesitated a moment, trying to grasp the conception of this
business use of literature. Mr. Ault resumed:

"It isn't anything in the nature of an advertisement. Literature is a
power. Why, do you know--of course you did not intend it--your story has
encouraged the Peacock Inn to double its accommodations, and half the
farmhouses in Rivervale are expecting summer boarders. The landlord of
the Peacock came to see me the other day, and he says everything is
stirred up there, and he has already to enlarge or refuse application."

"It is very kind in you, Mr. Ault, to think of me in that connection, but
I fear you have over-estimated