And the _Girls' Very Own Friend_ accepted the story and printed it, and in its columns notified to "George Thompson" that the price, a whole guinea, was lying idle at the office till he should send his address. For, of course, Kitty had taken a man's name for her pen-name, and almost equally, of course, had called herself "George." George Sand began it, and it is a fashion which young authors seem quite unable to keep themselves from following. Kitty longed to tell some one of her success--to ask admiration and advice; but Aunt Eliza was more severe and less approachable than usual that week. She was busy writing letters. She had always a sheaf of dull-looking letters to answer, so Kitty could only tell Mary in the kitchen under vows of secrecy, and Mary in the kitchen only said: "Well, to be sure, Miss, it's beautiful! I suppose you wrote the story down out of some book?" Therefore Kitty felt that it was vain to apply to her for intellectual sympathy. "I will write to Aunt Kate," said she, "_she_ will understand. Oh, how I wish I could see her! She must be a dear, soft, pussy, cuddly sort of person. Why shouldn't I go and see her? I will." And on this desperate resolve she acted. Now I find it quite impossible any longer to conceal from the intelligent reader that the reason why Kitty had never seen Aunt Kate was that "Aunt Kate" was merely the screen which sheltered from a vulgar publicity the gifted person who wrote the "Answers to Correspondents" for the _Girls' Very Own Friend_. In fear and trembling, and a disguised handwriting; with a feigned name and a quickly-beating heart, Kitty, months before, had written to this mysterious and gracious being. In the following week's number had appeared these memorable lines: "_Sweet Nancy._--So pleased, dear, with your little letter. Write to me quite freely. I love to help my girls." So Kitty wrote quite freely, and as honestly as any girl of eighteen ever writes: her hopes and fears, her household troubles, her literary ambitions. And in the columns of the _Girls' Very Own Friend_ Aunt Kate replied with all the tender grace and delightful warmth that characterised her utterances. The idea of calling on Aunt Kate occurred to Kitty as she was "putting on her things" to go to the Guildhall. She instantly threw the plain "everyday" hat from her, and pulled her best hat from its tissue-paper nest in the black bandbox. She put on her best blouse--the cream-coloured one with the browny lace on it, and her best brown silk skirt. She recklessly added her best brown shoes and gloves, and the lace pussy-boa. (I don't know what the milliner's name for the thing is. It goes round the neck, and hangs its soft and fluffy ends down nearly to one's knees.) Then she looked at herself in the glass, gave a few last touches to her hair and veil, and nodded to herself. "You'll do, my dear," said Kitty.