“I should think I do! I thought it one of the prettiest stories I had ever read, or heard read. Its fearless directness, without the least affectation of boldness, enchanted me. How one--clearly a woman--whose grammar was nowise to be depended upon, should yet get so swiftly and unerringly at what she wanted to say, has remained ever since a worshipful wonder to me. But I have seen something like it before, probably by the same writer!” “You may have seen the same review of it I saw; it was in your own paper.” “You don’t mean you take in ‘The Field Battery’?” “We did. Your father went for it himself, every week regularly. But we could not _always_ be sure which things you had written!” Walter gave a sigh of distaste, but said nothing. The idea of that paper representing his mind to his father and Molly was painful to him. “I have it here: may I read it to you?” “Well--I don’t know!--if you like. I can’t say I care about reviews.” “Of course not! Nobody should. They are only thoughts about thoughts about things. But I want you to hear this!” pleaded Molly, drawing the paper from her pocket. The review was of the shortest--long enough, however, to express much humorous comment for the kind of thing of which it said this was a specimen. It showed no suspicion of the presence in it of the things Walter had just said he saw there. But as Molly read, he stopped her. “There is nothing like that in the story! The statement is false!” he exclaimed. “Not a doubt of it!” responded Molly, and went on. But arrested by a certain phrase, Walter presently stopped her again. “Molly,” he said, seizing her hand, “is it any wonder I can not bear the thought of touching that kind of work again? Have pity upon me, Molly! It was I, I myself, who wrote that review! I had forgotten all about it! I did not mean to lie, but I was not careful enough not to lie! I have been very unjust to some one!” “You could learn her name, and how to find her, from the publisher of the little book!” suggested Molly. “I will find her, and make a humble apology. The evil, alas! is done; but I could--and will write another notice quite different.” Molly burst into the merriest laugh. “The apology is made, Walter, and the writer forgives you heartily! Oh, what fun! The story is mine! You needn’t stare so--as if you thought I couldn’t do it! Think of the bad grammar! It was not a strong point at Miss Talebury’s! Yes, Walter,” she continued, talking like a child to her doll, “it was little Molly’s first! and her big brother cut it all up into weeny weeny pieces for her! Poor Molly! But then it was a great honor, you know--greater than ever she could have hoped for!” Walter stared bewildered, hardly trusting his ears. Molly an authoress!--in a small way, it might be, but did God ever with anything begin it big? Here was he, home again defeated!--to find the little bird he had left in the nest beautifully successful!