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"Why, thy try and try, and never
say die," he answered.
When he was gone Clarice set her
self laboriously to work upon her
plot It was a love story, of course,
and the heroine was very much like
Clarice, just as the hero was like
Richard. With trembling fingers Clar
ice dropped the precious missive in
the letter box, and then she waited.
On th6 fifth morning a longenve
lope came to her. Clarice's heart
beat high". She opened it. Out tum
bled her story, and, inside the folded
pages was a printed notice as follows:
"The editors of 'The Leviathan' re
gret that, after careful consideration,
they are unable to use the MS which
you have sq kindly submitted."
There was not even a name signed
Clarice spent that afternoon In her
room crying. She did not care about
the story, but she knew that she
would never make a wife for Richard.
Later that day hope revived. The
riext morning the village stationer
got a fresh order for foolscap. Two
days afterward a second story was
posted. This time' the hero was still
more like Richard, but the heroine
was not in the least like Clarice.
Clarice was blonde and petite, and
the heroine, Ada Maltravers, was tall,
brunette and statuesque.
Evidently this sort of heroine also
failed to meet the approbation of the
stony-hearted editor, for in four days'
time Ada Maltravers was back on
Poor, desperate Clarice resolved to
learn ,her fate from Richard. She
would "write him a letter, under the
name she had adopted George
Black and post it from Hazelton,
the next village. She wrote a pitiful
inquiry as.to the cause for the rejec
tion of her two stories. "Tell me
frankly," she wrote, "whether I have
the ability to write stories that "The
Leviathan' will like."
The appeal touched Richard's
heart; and because, with all his wis
dom, he still suffered from the folly
known as youth, he wrote back to, the
author. Delicately, tactfully, merci
lessly he pointed out the deficiencies
in his work The immaturity, the
ignorance of life, the inexperience of
the themes with which he dealt, Rich
ard expounded. And in the final sen
tence he advised him to wait awhile
before offering stories, and then not
to offer them to "The Leviathan."
Three days after writing this let
ter, which Littlefield had expected
would gently, decisively, and kindly
turn his correspondent's thoughts
from the literary road, the editor re
ceived a letter which made him tear
his hair and then thrust on his hat
and rustf wildly irom the offipe to the
It was a ten-page letter, hut' it
might all have beea contained in a
couple of lines. Clarice had written
that she could not marry him.
Eight hours later a wild-pyed, dis
heveled figure, which nobody on
earth could have mistaken for a fa
mous editor, was hammering on the
front door of Clarice's house. Clar
ice's mother opened and recoiled in
"Clarice!" muttered the great edi
tor. "Is it you, Richard! She is in bed,
with a sick headache'."
"I must see her at once," he blurt
Clarice's mother had gone through
the experience of youth herself. So,
instead of thrusting him out into the
night, she Ted him in and put him
upon a lounge, and, tea minutes later,
Clarice appeared, red-eyed, but tan
talizingly pretty as ever.
"What does this mean!" exclaimed
Richard Littlefield, holding out the
"It means," sobbed Clarice, "that
that I am George Black."
"George Black!" echoed the editor.
"Ye-es," wept Clarice. "You told
me that my st-stories weren't any
good, and that from the im-Im-im-matu-turity
of them you gu-guessed
I was a wo-wo-woman, and that I