When Charley came out with his Compromise Resolutions, Alice was at first much taken aback, turning red and white by turns; nor do I believe she would ever have consented, had I not permitted myself to smile a rather triumphant smile of defiance. It was then that, nettled by this, she brought down her plump little fist upon the table and cried, “_I’ll do it._” “Brava!” cried Charley, patting her on the back. “And you, sir!” said she, turning upon him. “I don’t believe _you_ think I can do it.” “I believe you capable of anything.” “Well, I will show you. Decamp forthwith, both of you!” Charley and I decamped accordingly, and betook ourselves to a very pleasant beer-garden (for this colloquy chanced to be held in Richmond), where we spent a couple of hours. On our return we found Alice sitting with dishevelled hair and looking very disconsolate. “Where is chapter fifty-one?” Alice pointed rather snappishly to the waste-basket, in which lay several sheets of paper, torn into shreds. “Ah!” said I, “let us put the pieces together, Charley, and see how she got on.” And Charley and I made for the basket. The result was a battle royal, at the end of which the shreds had become bits of the size of postage-stamps, mingled with which, all over the room, lay the ruins of the basket. “You give it up, then?” “Not for a moment,” replied she, panting. A week passed before Alice summoned us to hear her chapter read. Not with a view to criticism, however; for it was agreed that neither Charley nor I should utter one word, either of praise or censure. Whatever she produced was to be printed just as she wrote it; and here it is, word for word, just as it came from her pen. And if any reader, during its perusal, shall come to doubt whether it be, in truth, her production; if he shall fail to discover one solitary trait of our merry-sparkling, laugh-compelling enchantress, it will be but another proof that what people are has nothing to do with what they write. If, for example, the reader shall find this work dull—but enough. Moving nearer the lamp, Alice read with a resolute spirit but faltering voice as follows: CHAPTER LI. BY ALICE FROBISHER, LOVE-EDITOR. They stood face to face, these two; he with outstretched hand to receive the goblet which she held. “I’d rather help myself.” “Why? But of course, if you prefer it.” And he stood aside. She glanced at his face. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude. Help me, then; thank you.” And barely moistening her lips (for somehow a choking sensation seized her), she handed him back the tumbler. It is in our premonitions that we women have some compensation for our inferiority in strength to men. It was not an accident that the Pythia and the Sibyl were women. The delicate, responsive fibre of her nervous system makes every woman half a prophetess. “You must have been parched with thirst,” said he, holding up the goblet, with a smile.