The next morning the natural buoyancy of youth asserted itself; she
reasoned that a long hard apprenticeship had been the lot of many
authors, and determined that she would write a page a day for years, if
need be, until her tardy faculty had been coaxed from its hard soil and
trained to use.
She could not go to the woods that day: her mother expected callers.
"Your birthday is a week from Wednesday," Mrs. Yorba said as they sat on
the verandah. "Your father and I have decided to give a dinner. You will
not come out formally, of course, until winter; but a little society
during the summer will take off the stiffness."