The reviewers got on the job. And they were there with the goods. Statements from a few typical press notices follow. "An absorbing story," said the Topeka _Progressive_, "throbbing with optimism." "Mr. Keyes strikes a new note in this unusual production; vivid, dramatic,"--San Francisco _Lookout_. "A story of vivid and compelling interest," one critic declared. "A delightful story, rich in heart throbs," was one good one. One reviewer said, "Here we have a real love story, a tale of love, tender and true, delightfully narrated. There are so many fine, tender passages in the episode of these two, who live just for each other, that reading the little book is like breathing strong, refreshing air." "The creator of 'Will Rockwell," said one paper, "has here written a new idyl of America." "An inspiring picture," said another. One very fine critique said: "Once in awhile, possibly once in a lifetime, there arises before us a writer of fiction whose genius is undeniable the instant it greets us." When Keyes read this, quoted in his publisher's latest newspaper advertisement, he knew that he had found his work in the world. And reasoning from his experience, he saw before him a calling that would be ever a noble intoxication of the soul, a kind that would know naught of headaches or remorse. But perhaps the best of all the critical dicta was this: "Written," it declared, "with blood and tears and fire." Very impressive was the number of times that were used such adjectives as "big," "vital," "absorbing," "compelling," "remarkable," "insistent," and "virile." "Optimism," it developed too, was the supreme merit of fiction. One of the arresting terms employed was "economy of means." There were, it is true, a few dissenting voices from the chorus of unrestrained praise, chiefly from certain notoriously dull, conservative, killjoy journals. The New York _Evening Postman_ said: "This somewhat amateurish little essay in fiction seems to be the product of an untutored sincerity. In this, its sincerity, it is not without a degree of vigor. We doubt, however, whether the author can repeat the performance." And that irrepressibly ribald organ, the New York _Beam_, could not forbear its customary jocular sport. Its smart review of this little classic (as one bookseller already pronounced it) began: "Hooray for 'Will'! Hooray also for 'Mabel'! They are the real simegoozlia." * * * * * "Don't you think you could write something now, dear?" inquired Mrs. Keyes, who did not see how scholarship pure and simple was, so to say, to move the boat. This idea of writing something now had indeed occurred to Keyes; but somehow he had not been able to think of anything in particular to write. So he went on with his studies, at the same time keeping an eye open for available material, characters, and plots.