There was a silence broken only by the sound of Erica's pen as she crossed out a word or a line. Charles Osmond watched her and mused. This beautiful girl, whose development he could trace now for more than two years back, what would she grow into? Already she was writing in the “Idol Breaker.” He regretted it. Yet it was obviously the most natural employment for her. He looked at her ever-changing face. She was absorbed in her work, her expression varying with the sentences she read; now there was a look of triumphant happiness as she came to something which made her heart beat quickly; again, a shade of dissatisfaction at the consciousness of her inability to express what was in her mind. He could not help thinking that it was one of the noblest faces he had ever seen, and now that the eyes were downcast it was not so terribly sad; there was, moreover, for the first time since her mother's death, a faint tinge of color in her cheeks. Before five minutes could have passed, the bell rang again. “That is my boy,” she exclaimed, and hastily blotting her sheets, she rolled them up, gave them to the servant, closed her desk, and crossing the room, knelt down in front of the fire to warm her hands, which were stiff and chilly. “How rude I have been to you,” she said, smiling a little; “I always have been rude to you since the very first time we met.” “We were always frank with each other,” said Charles Osmond; “I remember you gave me your opinion as to bigots and Christians in the most delightfully open way. So you have been writing your first article?” “Yes,” and she stretched herself as though she were rather tired and cramped. “I have had a delicious afternoon. Yesterday I was in despair about it, but today it just came--I wrote it straight off.” “And you are satisfied with it?” “Satisfied? Oh, no! Is anybody ever satisfied? By the time it is in print I shall want to alter every sixth line. Still, I dare say it will say a little of what I want said?” “Oh, you do want something said?” “Of course!” she replied, a little indignantly. “If not, how could I write.” “I quite agree with you,” said Charles Osmond, “and you mean to take this up as your vocation?” “If I am thought worthy,” said Erica, coloring a little. “I see you have high ideas of the art,” said Charles Osmond; “and what is your reason for taking it up?” “First of all, though it sounds rather illogical,” said Erica, “I write because I MUST; there is something in me which will have its way. Then, too, it is part of our creed that every one should do all in his power to help on the cause, and of course, if only for my father's sake, it would be my greatest pleasure. Then, last of all, I write because I must earn my living.” “Good reasons all,” said Charles Osmond. “But I don't feel sure that you won't regret having written when you look back several years hence.” “Oh! I dare say it will all seem crude and ridiculous then, but one must make a beginning,” said Erica.