Nevertheless something in Sullivan's voice and manner restored my confidence, and when I called on the editor of the _Century_ I was able to assume the tone of successful authorship. The closer I got to my market the more assured I became. I counted for something in New York. My thirty years of effort were remembered in my favor. On Tuesday Sullivan, who had been called to the West, wired me from Chicago that _A Son of the Middle Border_ would make an admirable serial and that his assistants would take the matter up with me. "I predict a great success for it." That night I sent a message to my wife in which I exultantly said, "Rejoice! I've sold _The Middle Border_ to _Collier's Weekly_. Our troubles are over for a year at least." Two days later _Collier's_ took a short story at four hundred dollars and the _Century_ gave me three hundred for an article on James A. Herne, and when I boarded the train for Chicago the following week I was not only four thousand dollars better off than when I came--I had regained my faith in the future. My task was clearly outlined. For the seventh time I set to work revising _A Son of the Middle Border_, preparing it for serial publication. * * * * * My father, who knew that I had been writing upon this story for years, stared at me in silent amazement when I told him of its sale. That the editor of a great periodical should be interested in a record of the migrations and failures of the McClintocks and Garlands was incredible. Nevertheless he was eager to see it in print--and when in March the first installment appeared, he read it with absorbed attention and mixed emotions. "Aren't you a little hard on me?" he asked with a light in his eyes which was half-humorous, half-resentful. "I don't think so, Father," I replied. "You must admit you were a stern disciplinarian in those days." "Well maybe I was--but I didn't realize it." My first understanding of the depths this serial sounded came to me in the letters which were written to the editor by those who could not find words in which to express their longing for the bright world gone--the world when they were young and glad. "You have written my life," each one said--and by this they meant that the facts of my family history, and my own emotional experiences were so nearly theirs that my lines awoke an almost intolerable regret in their hearts--an ache which is in my own heart to-day--the world-old hunger of the gray-haired man dwelling upon the hope and illusions of youth.