'And then Charlie Waterhouse--he's town treasurer--he sued me for libel--ten thousand dollars'--Henry seemed a thought proud of this--'and I had to give him two thousand to settle. It was something in one of my stories--the one called _Sinbad the Treasurer_. Mr Davis--he's my lawyer--he said Charlie had a case, but----' 'Wait a minute, Henry! Where did you get that money. It's--let me see--about four thousand dollars--your share--' 'Yes'm four thousand. It was my mother's. She left it to me. But----' 'I see. Your mother's estate. How much is left of it--outside what you lost in this suit and the two thousand you've invested in the paper.' 'Nothing. But----' 'Nothing! Now, Henry'--no, don't speak! I want you to listen to me a few minutes longer. And I want you to take seriously to heart what I'm going to say. First, about this paper, the _Gleaner_. It's a serious question whether you'll ever get your two thousand dollars back. If you ever _have_ to sell out you won't get anything like it. If you were older, and if you were by nature a business man--which you aren't!--you might manage, by the hardest kind of work to build it up to where you could get twenty or thirty dollars a week out of it instead of twelve. But you'll never do it. You aren't fitted for it. You're another sort of boy, by nature. And I'm sorry to say I firmly believe this money, or the most of it is certain to go after the other two thousand, that Mr Charlie Waterhouse got. But even considering that you boys _could_ make the paper pay for itself, Cicely couldn't be the wife of a struggling little country editor. I wouldn't listen to that for a minute! No, my advice to you, Henry, is to take your losses as philosophically as you can, call it experience, and go to work as a writer. It'll take you years----' '_Years!_ But----' 'Yes, to establish yourself. A success in a country town isn't a New York success. Remember that. No, it's a long road you're going to travel. After you've got somewhere, when you've become a man, when you've found yourself, with some real prospects--it isn't that I'd expect you to be rich, Henry, but I'd _have_ to be assured that you were a going concern--why, then you might come to me again. But not now. I want you to go now----' 'Without seeing Cicely?' 'Certainly. Above all things. I want you to go, and promise that you won't try to see her. To-morrow she goes away for a long visit.' 'For--a--long... But she'd see other men, and--Oh!...' 'Exactly. I mean that she shall. Best way in the world to find out whether you two are calves or lovers. One way or the other, we'll prove it. And now you must go! Remember you have my best wishes. I hope you'll find the road one of these days and make a go of it.'