"I am particularly glad she has gone out to-day, for all this week she has been occupied in the manufacture of a decoction of marigolds, which she assures me is a sovereign remedy against colds and chills. It appears that she has been trying to obtain the recipe for years, but only one person had it, and she guarded it with the most jealous secrecy. Now, at last, Mrs. Palling has prevailed upon her to disclose it, to her overwhelming joy and my infinite regret. I can only say that if the taste is anything like the smell I would most assuredly prefer the cold. As it is, I shall live in dread of the moment when my first sneeze will give Mrs. Palling the opportunity she longs for--that of proving it; and she will appear like an avenging fury armed with a flaming sword in the shape of a bumper of her noxious brew, stand over me until I drink it, and force me under pain of repeated doses to retract all the unkind remarks I have made about it. Mrs. Palling has a horrible way of getting the better of me in the end. I am beginning to think that a person who is always right is very trying to live with. So much wisdom gives me a sort of mental indigestion. I used to think nothing could be so irritating as a fool, but now I see why the Corinthians of old suffered fools gladly. The sight of folly gives one a comfortable feeling of superiority, and it is so nice to feel really superior even if one has the grace not to show it." "What have you been doing since I saw you last?" asked Philippa presently. "I have not been entirely idle. I have managed to get through quite a respectable quantity of work." "Another book?" asked the girl with interest. Isabella nodded. "Will it be quite as sad as the last?" "No, I hardly think it will," she answered with a laugh. "I don't know the reason though. I half think that the fact of knowing you has put me in lighter vein. Talk about it not being good for a man to be alone; I have come to the conclusion that it is ten times worse for a woman. What a sentiment to come from me! For it is not long ago that I was earnestly seeking a crack in the earth's surface which should be just large enough to hold me, to the exclusion of every one else. It must be your magic that has made this great change. Yes, the book is creeping on, and some of it will stand, I think." "Are you satisfied with it?" "Not at all," was the frank answer. "There is nothing so disappointing in the world as one's own writing; and yet one goes on. And so far as I am concerned I can only say that every time I write "Chapter I" on a new sheet of paper, I am full of conviction that this time at last I shall scale the height of my ambition, and that the child of my brain will be born to live. Not to have a few months or years of cheap notoriety, but to live a life of much more than that--to make some lasting impression on the hearts of the readers, and to have a healing touch which will comfort when those hearts are sick and sore."