“Yes, if I did not believe in them, I would be unable to write; for
the time being, I am living and observing a dozen lives. There is much
satisfaction in doing so correctly. I am in love with my work, and am a
hard worker.”
For the past few months, Mrs. Harrison has been idle, by the advice of
her physicians, and has spent the season abroad, traveling over the
continent.
“But all the time, I am turning little romances over in my mind, and
when I can no longer keep my pen from paper, I suppose I shall sit down
and write,” she said. “Last winter, I was under a pretty heavy strain,
and my overworked condition compelled me to rest for a while.”
Many amusing little instances touching upon her work have come to her
attention.
“One morning,” said Mrs. Harrison, “after my husband had successfully
defended a client, the man grasped his hand very warmly, and, to my
husband’s amazement, said, ‘Well, Mr. Harrison, I want to tell you
what we think of your wife. She’s the finest writer in the English
language, that’s what my daughter says. She says there are no books
like hers.’
“‘Which one does she like most?’ asked my husband, immensely pleased.
“‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I can’t just answer that, but I think it’s “Your
Eyre.”’
“Once I received a rather startling letter from a western ranchman. It
said, ‘Your book has been going the rounds, but it always comes back,
and I have threatened to put a bullet in the hide of the man who does
not return it.’ I was greatly pleased with that letter.
“The most gratifying letter I ever received was from a man in a prison.
He begged to be supplied with all I had written.
“Perhaps he was a man who had been in society, and there is a little
story connected with his imprisonment.”