Finally, a letter came to Effie, announcing that all arrangements were made, the book disposed of, and would be out in about two months; but Roland asked what was to be done with the money for the manuscript. "I never thought of that," said the young girl; "but tell Roland, Effie, to keep the money for the 'Home.'" When at last the package came, and Madeline really looked upon one of her own productions in print, she could not but smile at her temerity; and when in addition to the book, were also some flattering notices from the press, she was actually surprised. Papa was in the library--Madeline knocked at the door with a trembling hand; and when her father bade her enter, she stood irresolute with the book in her hand, and a shy smile upon her face. "What is the matter, daughter? you seem agitated." "I have something to show you, papa." "Well! what is it? I am ready." "This little book, papa." "Poh! poh! is that all? only a boy's book, Maddy." "But I know that you'd like to read this one, papa." "Well, to please my daughter, I'll read it some time; lay it on the table." "But, papa, I want you to read it now; look at the title-page." "By Madeline." "Why, what does this mean?" "It means, dear papa, that this is Mad-cap's book." "Did you really write this, my child?" "Yes, I did, papa; I hope it may do some good among the poor boys of New York." "What next, Maddy?" asked her father, with an amused expression of countenance. "I must be busy, and this is such pleasant work; you do not object, do you, papa?" "No, not exactly; but I should not like to have your name handed around as an authoress; I have rather a horror of literary ladies in general; they are so often odd, and I cannot abide an eccentric woman." "But, dear me, papa, these little unpretending stories are really nothing; they never can make me famous; and really I do not wish for anything but that they may do some good." Papa read the little book with a feeling of secret pride, quite surprised to see so much talent in his daughter Maddy. At the tea-table, he alluded to the subject. "Well, what would you think, Matilda, if I should introduce Madeline to her aunt, as a young authoress?" "Think, Lewis Hamilton! why I should say that you are both crazy. First, a Lady Bountiful, bringing in all the ragged children of the neighborhood, and now a writer of childish books. I am really concerned; if she becomes a 'blue stocking,' I have no hope left; she will grow to be a careless, slatternly woman, just like that Miss Hodges, that used to go about the country with soiled face and hands, carrying her great bag of manuscript under her skirts, fastened around her waist, like saddle-bags. You have no idea, Lewis Hamilton, how these pursuits ruin a woman--your indulgence carries you much too far." Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily at such a picture. "Don't alarm yourself, Matilda; I don't think that Madeline will ever reach notoriety like that."