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Newspaper Page Text
their acquaintance ripened.
The fair typist soon had the
two brief manuscripts before her
completed. She placed them
aside, opened a drawer, and took
from it one-half dozen sheets of
paper. Eva read them over.
"Oh, dearf she murmured, "I
am a dismal failure. I guess I had
better give up my foolish ambi
tion to become an authoress.
When I compare these with Mr.
Worthington's stories, I see that
I have a long road to travel be
fore I can even dare to approach
Eva's little story was simple
and commonplace, but was more
than creditable for an amateur.
Almost unconsciously she had se
lected a heroine in an uncertain
city environment like her own
self. Unconsciously, too, she had
her hero a model of her ideal, the
author of the stories she had just
copied. Her story, partly done,
had one page not completed. It
was where her heroince had writ
ten a letter to the man she loved.
It ran :
"I am going away because I
love you, and I tell you this only
because I am sure we shall never
meet again. But it will be sweet
solace for me in the dreary future,
to know that perhaps this knowl
edge may bring a passing thought
in your mind of a girl far below
you in social and intellectual posi
tion, but able fully to understand
your noble soul, and knowing
that your genius will some day
bring you great fame, which she
would be too lowly to share, save
as a hindrance to your career.
"Denzil" wrote Eva at the top
of the letter. Then she blushed.
But why not make her hero
"Denzil?" It was an odd name,
a musical name, to her she flut
tered as she realized it a dear
Just then Eva noticed some
writing on the back of the manu- a
scripts she had copied: "Must
have these by ten o'clock tomor
row. Don't fail. D. W."
"Why," exclaimed Eva, "I did
not see that direction before.
What can I do. The office will be
closed. Mr. Worthington must
have the stories. I have his ad
dress. I will send them to him
personally in the morning."
Eva got the scattered pages
together in the morning, she
hired a neighbor's boy to carry
the stories to their author. That
afternoon she sat down to rest.
Her mother was asleep. Sud
denly there was a knock at the
door. Eva answered the sum
mons. It was Mr. Worthington.
Eva's face brightened. Then it
became puzzled. There was some
thing in the fervent way in which
the author shook hands with her,
an excited challenging eye glance
that puzzled her.
"I hope you found the stories
all right, Mr. Worthington?"
said Eva, as they were seated.
"Oh, yes that is I did hot f
look over them," and her visitor
stammered and seemed confused.
"Surely, Miss Dorrance, you are
not going to leave the city?"
"Leave the city?" repeated
Eva, bewildered. "I had not
thought of it."