Nothing more was said then, but later that evening, when we rose from our work, he asked, “She never replied?” and when I shook my head, the saddest look I ever saw in him came upon his face. He seemed about to speak impulsively, faltered, checked himself, and finally entreated, “Bear up, Donald, and try to forget her.” I could only shake my head again, but he understood. “She’s feminine quicksilver,” he groaned, “and I can’t get the dear girl out of my blood, either.” We gripped each other’s hands for a moment, and I said, “Good-night, father,” and he replied, “God help you, my boy.” How happy we should have been could we have bidden you, “Good-night, Maizie!” V _February 24._ I cannot clearly fix the time when first I decided upon a life of letters, and presume it was my father’s influence which determined me. After the publication of my first article, all the time I could spare from my studies was devoted to writing. Most of it was magazine work, but two text-books were more ambitious flights. Undertaken at my father’s suggestion, the books were revised by him, till they should have been published with his name, and not my pseudonym, on the title-page. This I urged, but he would not hear of it, insisting that his work was trivial compared with mine. I understand his motive now, and see how wise and loving he was in all his plans. Thanks to his skill in clarifying knowledge and fitting it to the immature mind, both books attained a large sale almost immediately on their publication. My father’s abnegation went further, and occasioned the only quarrel we ever had. After the publication of several of my articles, in reading the Deutsche Rundschau I found an interesting critique signed with the name I had adopted as a pseudonym. I laughingly called my father’s attention to it, yet really feeling a little sore that the credit of my work should go to another, for the first literary offspring are very dear to an author’s heart. From that time I was constantly meeting with the name, but stupidly failed to recognize my father’s brilliant, luminous touch till the publication of another article of my writing revealed the truth to me; for at the end of this I found again my pseudonym, though I had signed my own name. On my sending an indignant letter to the editor, he returned me the revised proof of my article, at the bottom of which “Donald Maitland” was struck out, and “Rudolph Hartzmann” substituted. My father had made the change in the last revision, and had returned the sheets without letting me see them.