It cost me some weeks of my life, made a hole in my pocket, and did my walls and house much damage, but I gained a vast amount of experience, and _hundreds of half-sheets of note-paper_! CHAPTER XXVIII WORK RELAXED: AND ORCHARDSON A deal of ink had run from my pen in thirteen years—thirteen books had been turned out, and thousands of odd articles, there was hardly a paper or magazine in the country to which I had not contributed something. Work had become much easier with practice, and a certain amount of success—far, far more than I ever deserved—had come my way. During that busy time I wrote more words per week than I wrote in the whole previous nine years. I never believe in people making money they do not require, unless occasionally, and then they should pass their little gains on to some charitable cause. Still less do I believe in anyone writing anything to be printed just for the pleasure of seeing their name in print. That is taking bread out of someone’s mouth, and lowering the market standard. I never wrote a line in my life that was not paid for. Always before me lay two roads, the one grinding on to the bitter end as a writer and journalist, the second string being much the more important as it meant more pay for less risk; or the possibility that some day investments of my husband’s might turn out better and the necessity to work might cease. It did not cease—but after thirteen years I felt my feet sufficiently to bid adieu to journalistic work. A few hundreds here, and a few hundreds there carefully re-invested, three small legacies left because of the “splendid fight I had made,” or “in appreciation of her pluck and hard work,” lifted the cloud, and as the cloud rolled away I took my leave of the journalist’s yoke which had so often galled a sensitive back: the moment I could do without this source of income I left it alone, thankful, grateful for its kindly aid through years of adversity. I don’t suppose my editors missed me. They never knew me personally; incognito I entered their pages except as a name, incognito as a personality I left them. I was ill—over-work, over-strain, over-anxiety for thirteen years bowled me over—I, who had never had “little ills,” seemed to be always having colds and coughs, sleepless nights, aching temples, tonsilitis, and other stupid little ailments; but in all reverence let me thank God that the necessity that plied the lash so unceasingly for thirteen busy years gradually relaxed.