But I not only write stories; I also at times read stories, and I have been known to recite—not in an impassioned way but merely foolishly. The previous winter had been a hard one in more ways than one for both Ethel and myself, but toward the close of it the winning of a prize in a story competition had given me enough money to enable me to knock off work for all summer, and it had seemed wise to take advantage of such a chance to rest and lie fallow. I did not mention my occupation at the start because I was afraid that readers would say, “Oh, dear, this is a story by a literary man, and nothing will happen in it.” You see now-a-days when men in all walks of life write of what they have done, and make books of their writings, the people who read books have gotten to the point when they look with suspicion on a story that is written by a mere professional writer. They say, “Oh, he has done nothing but write. Let us read the book of the man who has first done and has then written.” But you who have read thus far may feel in a way friendly to Minerva, and the rest, and so I take you into my confidence and make the pun to you that won for me a rebuke from Ethel. Letters spell livelihood for me. The Congregational Minister, Egbert Hughson, and his wife returned to us in a few minutes and after the moving accident had been discussed for a certain length of time, he came to the matter that had brought him up. He was a smooth shaven alert, Western man of about thirty, I should say, and I marked him out as a type of the modern muscular Christian, and this guess proved to have been correct. He was an Iowan who had come East to study, had graduated from Williams and after a year in a small Iowa church had been called to Egerton through the good offices of a former class-mate. I hope I may not be accused of egotism if I set down plainly what Mr. Hughson said. The denouement is not what an egotist would roll under his tongue. During the narration of the episode let me treat Philip Vernon quite as if he did not press the keys with which I am writing this. “Mr. Vernon, I did not know until Deacon Fotherby told me, that we had so distinguished a man amongst us. I have read your sketches in the _Antarctic Monthly_ with a great deal of pleasure, and although you use a pen name, still I happened to know that you were the author. I also understand that you sometimes recite.”