"What sort of a book is it?"
"It's a novel. Kind of a love story."
"How long is it?"
"There are thirty-seven chapters done."
"Then it isn't finished?"
"No; but I could end it off about any time, if you are in a hurry for
it."
In spite of himself, the publisher smiled. Theodora's girlish naïveté
was refreshing to him. He liked her face and manner, and he was curious
to see more of this young aspirant for fame, so he pushed forward a
chair.
"Sit down," he said genially; "and tell me more about it."
With the off-hand, healthy directness of a boy, Theodora plunged into
the midst of her plot and unfolded all its intricacies. The publisher
listened till the end, always with the same little smile on his face.
"How old are you?" he asked, when she paused for breath.
"Sixteen."
"And you want to write books?"
"Awfully." Theodora's hand shut, as it lay in her lap. "I'm going to do
it, too, some day."
"Good! I think perhaps you will. And you live in New York?"
"No; I live in Massachusetts; but I'm here with Mrs. Farrington."
"Mrs. Farrington? Mrs. William H. Farrington?"
"Yes."
"Is it possible! Did she send you to me?"
"No; I came. Do you know her?"
"Very well, and for ever so many years, since she was younger than you."
"I never heard her say anything about you," Theodora said, with
unflattering directness.
"Very likely not. But now, my dear little girl, I am going to give you
some advice. I am afraid we can't take your book. It isn't in our line;
but some day you may write something that is, and then I shall be glad
to see it. Now, if you really mean to write good books, you must read
good ones, the best ones that are written; you must study a great deal
and study all sorts of things, for you can never tell what will help you
most. Keep on writing, if you want to; but don't expect to have anything
published for ten years. By that time, you will just be ready to begin
your work. Sometime, we may meet again," he added, as he rose; "and then
you must tell me all you have done. I think I shall have reason to
congratulate you. Till then, good-by. Give my regards to Mrs.
Farrington, and tell her that I shall try to call on her before she
leaves the city."
Theodora read her dismissal in the shrewd, kindly brown eyes. She went
away in a glorified dream of the future which lasted until she saw Billy
crossing the pavement, leaning on one crutch and with Patrick's strong
arm supporting his weight on the other side. He looked tired, and his
brave helplessness struck her in strong contrast to her own exuberant
happiness. It suddenly seemed to her that it would be selfish to boast
of her own hopes, in the face of his uncertain future, so she locked her
lips on the subject of her morning's adventure, and turned to greet him
with a bright interest which concerned itself with his doings alone.