The title of the verses (a very bad one) was filled in below, the date below that, and that was all. "Oh, mother, they've accepted my verses!" "Who?" "_Uncle Tom's Magazine._" "Did you actually send some verses to _Uncle Tom_?" "Yes, on Tuesday, the day after Uncle Spencer was here. I've done what I said I'd do. He'll see I'm not such an utter waster after all." "And you--never--told--me!" His mother's eyes were swimming. He kissed them dry, and began to make light of his achievement. "Mother, I couldn't. I didn't know what you would think of them. I didn't think much of them myself, nor do I now. The verses in _Uncle Tom_ are not much. And then--I thought it would be a surprise." "Well, it wouldn't have been one if I had known you had sent them," said Mrs. Ringrose; and now she was herself again. "I only hope, my boy," she added, "that they will pay you something." "Of course they will. _Uncle Tom_ must have an excellent circulation." "Then I hope they'll pay you something handsome. Did you tell the Editor how long we have taken him in?" "Mother!" "Then I've a great mind to write and tell him myself. I am sure it would make a difference." "Yes; it would make the difference of my getting the verses back by return of post," said Harry, grimly. Mrs. Ringrose looked hurt, but gave way on the point, and bade him go on with his breakfast. Harry did so with the _Uncle Tom_ acceptance spread out and stuck up against the marmalade dish, and one eye was on it all the time. Afterwards he went to his room and read over the rough draft of his verses, which he had not looked at since he sent them away. He could not help thinking a little more of them than he had thought then. He wondered how they would look in print, and referred to one of the bound _Uncle Toms_ to see. "Well, have you brought them?" said Mrs. Ringrose when he could keep away from her no longer. "The verses? No, dear, I have only a very rough draft of them, which you couldn't possibly read; and I could never read them to you--I really couldn't." "Not to your own mother?" He shook his head. He was also blushing; and his diffidence in the matter was not the less genuine because he was swelling all the time with private pride. Mrs. Ringrose did not press the point. The pecuniary side of the affair continued to interest her very much. "Do you think fifty?" she said at length, with considerable obscurity; but her son knew what she was talking about. "Fifty what?" "Pounds!" "For my poor little verses? You little know their length! They are only forty-two lines in all." "Well, what of that? I am sure I have heard of such sums being given for a short poem." "Well, they wouldn't give it for mine. Fifty shillings, more like." "No, no. Say twenty pounds. They could never give you less." Harry shook his head and smiled.