"If you come to discuss that question," said my father, "we must all confess we have had in our day to pocket a good many more praises than we had a right to. I agree with you, however, my child, that we must not connive at any thing of the sort. So I will propose this clause in the bargain between you and Mr. S.; namely, that, if he finds any fault with your work, he shall send it back to yourself to be set right, and, if you cannot do so to his mind, you shall be off the bargain." "But papa,--Percivale,--both of you know well enough that nothing ever happened to me worth telling." "I am sorry your life has been so very uninteresting, wife," said my husband grimly; for his fun is always so like earnest! "You know well enough what I mean, husband. It does _not_ follow that what has been interesting enough to you and me will be interesting to people who know nothing at all about us to begin with." "It depends on how it is told," said Mr. S. "Then, I beg leave to say, that I never had an original thought in my life; and that, if I were to attempt to tell my history, the result would be as silly a narrative as ever one old woman told another by the workhouse fire." "And I only wish I could hear the one old woman tell her story to the other," said my father. "Ah! but that's because you see ever so much more in it than shows. You always see through the words and the things to something lying behind them," I said. "Well, if you told the story rightly, other people would see such things behind it too." "Not enough of people to make it worth while for Mr. S. to print it," I said. "He's not going to print it except he thinks it worth his while; and you may safely leave that to him," said my husband. "And so I'm to write a book as big as 'The Annals;' and, after I've been slaving at it for half a century or so, I'm to be told it won't do, and all my labor must go for nothing? I must say the proposal is rather a cool one to make,--to the mother of a family." "Not at all; that's not it, I mean," said Mr. S.; "if you will write a dozen pages or so, I shall be able to judge by those well enough,--at least, I will take all the responsibility on myself after that." "There's a fair offer!" said my husband. "It seems to me, Wynnie, that all that is wanted of you is to tell your tale so that other people can recognize the human heart in it,--the heart that is like their own, and be able to feel as if they were themselves going through the things you recount." "You describe the work of a genius, and coolly ask me to do it. Besides, I don't want to be set thinking about my heart, and all that," I said peevishly. "Now, don't be raising objections where none exist," he returned. "If you mean I am pretending to object, I have only to say that I feel all one great objection to the whole affair, and that I won't touch it."