_Friend_:--You said that someone would surely print it, and I write you this to say that after four publishers had most politely rejected the manuscript, the fifth has written me saying the story does not amount to much; in fact, that I have no literary style, but as the book is so out of the general run they concluded to accept it. They sent me a check for $300.00 which they say is a bonus, and after the first 5,000 copies are sold they propose to pay me a royalty. So you see even if I have lost my place at Hustler’s, I am not destitute, so I will not accept your offer of a loan. You and Grimes (dear old Grimes) are the only persons in all this great city who have stood by me in my trouble. If you had presented me with a box of candy I would thank you, but for all the kindness I have received, prompted by your outspoken and generous nature, I offer not a single word. Words, in times like these, to such as you, are of small avail, my heart speaks. You say you dislike awfully to see those last five chapters in print, and so will I, my dear. Little did we think when I began this book that the story would have such an ending; but, Martha, I am not writing a pretty novel, but simple truth just as the facts occurred. I offer no excuse nor apology, but will simply give you this from Charles Kingsley’s “Alton Locke:” Scene: A street corner in London, on one hand a gin palace, opposite a pawn shop--those two monsters who feed on the vitals of the poor--all about is abject wretchedness. Locke stops, sighs and says, “Oh, this is so very unpoetic.” Sandy Mackaye replies, “What, man, no poetry here! Why, what is poetry but chapters lifted from the drama of life, and what is the drama if not the battle between man and circumstance, and shall not man eventually conquer? I will show you too in many a garret where no eye but that of the good God enters, the patience, the fortitude, the self-sacrifice and the love stronger than death, all flourishing while oppression and stupid ignorance are clawing at the door!” But right will conquer, dearest, and the goodness that has never been weighed in the balances, nor tried in the fire, how do you know it _is_ goodness at all? It may only be namby-pamby--wishy-washy--goody-goody, _who knows_? _We_ are all in God’s hand, sister, and the bad is the stuff sent, on which to try our steel. Yours ever, ASPASIA. * * * * * LETTER NO. 2. July 3, 1891. TO PYGMALION WOODBUR, ESQ., Attorney-at-Law.