As I learned later from home-letters, the editor, after advertising vainly for the author’s address, had published without waiting for it. I wrote home that night to my father, pouring out the whole revelation, and stipulating that the secret should be kept among ourselves. “Marion Harland” was, again, a hint of my name, so covert that it was not guessed at by readers in general. The editor, an acquaintance of my father, was informed of my right to draw the money. I continued to send tales and poems to him for two years, and preserved my incognito. In the late spring of 1853, “Mea,” Herbert, and I were sitting in the parlor on a wild night when it rained as rain falls nowhere else as in the seven-hilled city. My companions had their magazines. Mea’s, as I well recollect, was _Harper’s New Monthly_; my brother had the _Southern Literary Messenger_. Ned Rhodes had taken _Harper’s_ for me from the very first issue. My father subscribed conscientiously for the _Messenger_ to encourage Southern literature. All right-minded Virginians acknowledged the duty of extending such encouragement to the extent of the subscription price of “native productions.” I had dragged out the rough copy of my book from the bottom of my desk that day, and was now looking it over at a table on one side of the fireplace. Chancing upon the page describing Celestia Pratt’s entrance upon school-life, I laughed aloud. “What is it?” queried my sister, looking up in surprise. “See if you know her,” I responded, and read out the scene. She joined in the laugh. “To the life!” she pronounced. “Go on!” I finished the chapter, and the two resumed their magazines. Presently Herbert tossed his aside. “I say!” with boyish impetuosity. “This is stupid after what you gave us. Haven’t you ‘anything more of the same sort?’” It was a slang phrase of the day. It was the “Open Sesame” of my literary life. They kept me reading until nearly midnight, dipping in here for a scene, there for a character-sketch, until my voice gave out. I began rewriting _Alone_ next day, and we welcomed stormy evenings for the next two months. When the MS. was ready for the press, I wrote the “Dedication to my Brother and Sister” as a pleasant surprise to my generous critics. They did not suspect it until they read it in print.