Jane Judd's history up to this point has no more dramatic interest than the history of any drab woman of twenty-eight, picked out at random from the army of workwomen which marches daily to and from the factories and stores. She had lived in Warburton, a small New Jersey town, until she was twenty-two, keeping house for her father, who had a grocery store. He was her only relation. When he died she sold the store and came to New York to make a living. She was trained for nothing. She had had a High School education, which left her with a taste for books and a consuming ambition to write them. Being a dumb creature at best, she had never spoken of this dream to a human soul, except her mother. The town paper had published several of her stories, signed with a pen name, and she secretly cherished the idea that she had talent. So when her release came, she did as so many girls do these days, she put her little all into her pocketbook and came to the big town to grapple with success. She applied at newspaper offices, at first, with her village paper clippings as justification. She admitted to such editors as she saw that she had no nose for news, but she liked to write stories, and thought maybe she could do special stuff. She was shy and frightened. Nobody wanted her. She found a cheap room and gave herself a month in which to write short stories. With one new one, and two old ones worked over, she tried the magazines. It was a weary round with rejection at every point, while the reserves in her bank grew smaller and smaller. During the whole month she never talked to any one, and she knew a loneliness as bitter as pain. Finally, one day an editor of a magazine let her come into his office. He looked at her keenly. "Miss Judd," he began, "I've read these stories of yours and I want to give you a bit of advice. Are you trying to make a living out of this kind of thing?" "Yes, sir." "Can you do anything else to support yourself?" "I don't know." "Where have you lived?" Jane told him. "You're alone in the world?" "Yes." "Unmarried?" "Yes." "May I tell you quite frankly how I feel about your case?" "I wish you would." "You make the common mistake of thinking that anybody can write. Now, putting words together is not writing; making fine sentences is not writing; elaborating striking plots is not writing. Of all the arts, literature is the most exacting mistress. With some idea of the technique of painting, or music, coupled with a surface brilliance, you may paint or sing or play. With even less equipment, you may act; but to write, you must have lived, you must have suffered and known joy; you must be able to analyze people, to understand their motives, to love them. To write, you must have ideas and emotions. It is only when the sources of your own being run deep that you can bring up waters of refreshment for others."