"Twelve years!" But she went on with a faint smile, "And I suppose you have seen a good many people about books since then."

"Quite a number," he assented slowly. "In fact, I was not here myself at the time you mention. The firm has changed owners since then. The founder of the house, Mr. Crosby”

"That was the name of the gentleman I saw," she interposed eagerly. "A tall man with glasses and a large beard." She laughed softly. "He frightened me so, I remember, when I came in answer to his letter. But he was kind, very kind. He was the first person to tell me that my story was good. Could I-might I see him?"

"Mr. Crosby has been dead for five years now," said Pettit. He laid down the letter which, with the suggestiveness of a stopwatch, was invariably held in his right hand during such interviews. A blankness had fallen upon his visitor's face, her figure seemed to shrink. All at once he was looking at a woman whose youthfulness, he understood, had vanished years before in a commonplace struggle for a living.

"Oh!" she said with softly indrawn breath. "Five years ago! I thought" "But you must tell me about your new book. You see I have great respect for Mr. Crosby's judgment," Pettit suggested. "If he liked your work I—that is, we may be able to do something."

Her fingers rubbed the handle of a small bag in her lap. "Yes, he liked it. It was not -I think he said quite popular enough for him to publish the way some books are. But if I would pay for it-just the cost of printing and binding it, you know-he would publish it. He told me to bring it back." Pettit's heart sank. "I do not think I understand," he said. "This book you brought to Mr. Crosby?"

She touched the bag in her lap. "I have it here." She extracted a roll of paper tied with a tape. Her head was bent. But as she laid the manuscript upon the desk she raised her face. There was a touch of pink in her cheeks. "Mr. Crosby told me it would cost five hundred dollars," she said in a low voice. "So I could not bring the story back until-now."

"You mean- -" Pettit began.

"Pardon me," said Pettit. "I mean, have you been waiting twelve years to have that book published?"

She nodded. "Waiting and-saving," she said cheerfully. Then, in a little burst of confidence, "Some people would think it very foolish to be as fond of a book as I am of this; but you know all about books, and you understand, don't you?"

"I think I do," said Pettit; but he knew that he did not. "And now you are going to leave it with me?" he added.

"Yes." She put her hand into the bag again and drew out a fat and very much worn wallet clasped in rubber bands. "You don't know how nervous it has made me to carry all this down here," she explained. "The Savings Fund wanted me to have a check, but I was afraid. I don't know much about checks, you see.”

Her meaning slowly grew on Pettit. "But you don't quite comprehend," he began. "That is, are you speaking of the money to pay for the book?"

"Yes, the five hundred dollars." She had drawn out a roll of crisp bank-notes. "Will you count them for me? I counted them twice; the first time I was twelve dollars short. I will be very much obliged." Her fingers were shaking.

He was try

He did not reply at once. ing harder than he had ever tried before to frame an answer which should tell her all that was to be told and leave her with her faith unshaken. "Let me explain to you something about publishing books," he began. "To some people it seems a good deal like having made to order a chair or a table, or anything of that sort. These people bring in a drawing to the cabinetmaker and say, 'How much will it cost me to make a chair like that?' And the cabinetmaker looks at the drawing, and does some figuring, and estimates the cost. Then, if they agree, he makes the chair, delivers it to them, is paid, and the whole thing is done. But it's really very different with a book. Making a manuscript into a book is the easiest part. The real skill and the hard work come before a page of the manuscript is put into type, and all over again when the book is finally made-if it is. Do I make myself plain?"

"Yes-that is, I think so," she murmured.

He felt he was doing it rather badly, but he went on, picking his words: "Well, by all that I mean that the selection of a bookthat is, choosing the manuscript which seems to be what people are most likely to want, and therefore buy, requires a great deal of care and thought. We make mistakes-many of them-but we do all we can not to make them, and so-so, of course, a great, great many manuscripts-some of them by writers who have written several books before-are-well, we cannot publish them."

She had been leaning forward, watching his face closely, but, as he neared the end her fingers were picking nervously at a fold of her gown; she had slipped back in the chair when he finished. The manuscript and money lay unheeded on the desk; her eyes, faded and wistful, had fallen upon the bag in her lap.

Pettit waited. There was no mercy in encouragement which should blind her to the facts. But if she would only help him a little. He shifted his position, and her glance was lifted with a start. "I am very ignorant, I suppose," she said. "But," with a wan smile, "it is my first time. Mr. Crosby

"Of course. I know," he put in quickly. "And it is not at all easy to understand. As for Mr. Crosby-when he was alive people read many books which they cannot appreciate to-day. Perhaps they have gone backward. But we can't help that, can we? We must give them what they want. But your book-I tell you what we will do. You give back your money to the Savings Fund people to keep-for the present and leave your manuscript with me. I will read it soon. I will begin on it to morrow, and we'll hope-we'll hope that it is just the sort of book that we can publish and sell a great many copies of."

All at once her lips quivered, a tear stole from her winking lashes and was brushed away by a cotton glove. "If that is the best way," she faltered. "And I hope you will like the story."

"I will try to very hard," he answered. He rose hastily. "I will have a receipt made out for your manuscript," he said, and went into the adjoining room.

When he returned she was replacing the wallet in her bag and a tight little ball of handkerchief showed between the fingers of a clenched hand. She smiled at him brave

ly. "My," she said, "but the Savings Fund will be surprised! I will have to get a new pass-book-that is, I will have to start my account all over again." Then quickly, "Oh-I forgot. You have to give them two weeks notice when you want to draw it all out. Do you think?”

"No, I am sure we will not need the money before two weeks, in any event," he interposed instantly. "Put it back into the Savings Fund, by all means. I have your address, and I will write to you."

"When you have read the story? And then I can come to talk to you about it, can't I? I could change it, you know, if you thought it would help any."

He could not discourage her then. "Wait, anyhow, until I have had time to think it all over," he said. "And here is your receipt."

She tucked it into the bag and held out her hand. "You will try to like the story?" she said. "It means-so much." There her voice broke, and abruptly her hand slipped out of his and she was gone.

He read the manuscript that night and, when he had turned the last page, laid it down with a sigh and got into bed. It was no better, no worse than he had anticipated--without proportion, without literary grace, a sentimental outpouring in which the fancies of a commonplace existence found expression in words and deeds romantic almost to absurdity. It was not possible to put this into print. But how to tell her so? Cartwright would have returned the manuscript with one of those stereotyped notes, or, if an interview was unavoidable, have remarked "The story is very grammatical, but quite outside the line of the company's publications."

Pettit knew that he could do neither of these things, and so he lay on his back and stared at the blackness and anathematized the weakness which had persuaded him to see Miss Beasley and doubly damned himself for allowing pity to sway him now. Reading manuscripts was a cold business proposition, the encouragement of those who could not write and thought they could a crime against the confidence of the reading public. Moreover, it was a positive act of cruelty to the deluded scribbler, who should be forced to see the truth, and so helped to do something for which he or she was fitted. Here was this woman for twelve years bending every energy to hoard enough