Impressions of the quaint old French and Spanish city, with its motley population, were carefully jotted down in her note-book. These first descriptions she afterwards rewrote, discarding weakening detail, elaborating the occasional triviality which seemed to reflect the true local tint--a nice distinction, involving conscientious hard work. How she longed for criticism and advice! A year ago her father, now usually dozing in his chair while she worked, would have been a most able and affectionate critic; but now--She rejoiced when a day passed without his asking for her mother, and wondering why she did not come. And so it was that in her need of sympathy Evelyn began to read her writings, some of which had grown into stories, to mammy. The very exercise of reading aloud--the sound of it--was helpful. That mammy's criticisms should have proven valuable in themselves was a surprise, but it was even so. II "A pusson would know dat was fanciful de way hit reads orf, des like a pusson 'magine some'h'n' what ain't so." Such was mammy's first criticism of a story which had just come back, returned from an editor. Evelyn had been trying to discover wherein its weakness lay. Mammy had caught the truth. The story was unreal. The English seemed good, the construction fair, but--it was "_fanciful_." The criticism set Evelyn to thinking. She laid aside this, and read another manuscript aloud. "I tell yer, honey, a-a-a pusson 'd know you had educatiom, de way you c'n fetch in de dictionary words." "Don't you understand them, mammy?" she asked, quickly, catching another idea. "Who, me? Law, baby, I don't crave ter on'erstan' all dat granjer. I des ketches de chune, an' hit sho is got a glorified ring." Here was a valuable hint. She must simplify her style. The tide of popular writing was, she knew, in the other direction, but the _best_ writing was _simple_. The suggestion sent her back to study. And now for her own improvement she rewrote the "story of big words" in the simplest English she could command, bidding mammy tell her if there was one word she could not understand. In the transition the spirit of the story was necessarily changed, but the exercise was good. Mammy understood every word. "But, baby," she protested, with a troubled face, "look like _hit don't stan' no mo'_; all its granjer done gone. You better fix it up des like it was befo', honey. Hit 'minds me o' some o' deze heah fine folks what walks de streets. You know _folks what 'ain't got nothin' else_, dee des nachelly _'bleege_ ter put on finery." How clever mammy was! How wholesome the unconscious satire of her criticism! This story, shorn of its grandeur, could not stand indeed. It was weak and affected. "You dear old mammy," exclaimed Evelyn, "you don't know how you are helping me."