It is strange how even a humble writer like myself gets quoted; more often than not, without payment or acknowledgment. A certain well-known author wrote a book which was literally a réchauffé of one of mine; but beyond my name appearing in the preface as “one of the works consulted,” no further acknowledgment was made. Whole articles have appeared with new headlines. Pages and pages have been embodied in other people’s work without any acknowledgment whatever. I remember two instances, however, where I was most graciously asked for the right of reproduction. I say “graciously” advisedly, because I should never have seen the publications, and never have known the articles were used. One was a letter from the head teacher of the great Military College near Berlin, Lichtenfelde, who asked if an article on Mexico might be used in the new _English Reading-book_, then in preparation for the students. The other was a request for permission to transcribe an article on the _Silent Sisterhood_ at Biarritz into Braille for the blind. That again was a thing I should never have been likely to come across. Speaking of translations reminds me of the lack of emancipation of Germany as recently as Christmas, 1906. _Porfirio Diaz_ had just been translated. It was being well advertised and well reviewed, all the result, probably, of a long article that had appeared a few months before in the _Preussische Jahrbücher_, the leading political magazine of the Fatherland, which had suggested that the book was of such value they hoped to see a German translation. Having many friends in Germany, I thought I would go over for a month, let my boys join me for Christmas at Bonn, where we would visit Dr. von Rottenburg (mentioned in an earlier chapter), and afterwards snow-shoe and skate in the Thüringian Mountains. On my dressing-table when I arrived in Berlin was a copy of _Diaz_, with the publisher’s compliments. It was charmingly and most artistically got up, and what cost a guinea here was only twelve shillings there. But I at once noticed the name attached was _Alec Tweedie_. There was no “Mrs.” nor “Frau.” I peeped inside. Again the man’s name, without the feminine prefix. Next morning my esteemed publisher, who represented one of the most important houses in Germany, called to make my acquaintance. I congratulated him on the get-up of the book, and the excellent translation. “But why,” I said, “did you put ‘Alec Tweedie’ on the volume without a prefix?” He hummed and hawed. “That is a man’s name,” I continued, “my husband’s name, and I am a woman.”