As the blunt old lady paused, it was evident she had produced a sensation, for Saul smiled at the fire, Ruth looked dismayed at this assault upon one of her idols; and the young ladies were both astonished and amused at the keenness of the new critic who dared express what they had often felt. Randal, however, was quite composed and laughed good-naturedly, though secretly feeling as if a pail of cold water had been poured over him.

"Many thanks, madam; you have discovered my weak point with surprising accuracy. But you see I cannot help 'picking folks to pieces,' as you have expressed it; that is my gift, and it has its attractions, as the sale of my books will testify. People like the 'spice bread,' and as that is the only sort my oven will bake, I must keep on in order to make my living."

"So a rum seller would say, but it's not a good trade to faller; and I'd chop wood 'fore I'd earn my livin' harmin' my feller man. 'Pears to me I'd let my oven cool a spell, and hunt up some homely, happy folks to write about. I'd write 'bout folks that don't borrow trouble and go lookin' for holes in their neighbors' coats, but take their lives brave and cheerful; and rememberin' we are all human, have pity on the weak and try to be as full of mercy, patience, and lovin'-kindness as Him who made us. That sort of a book would do a heap of good. It'd be real warmin' and strengthenin' and make them that read it love the man who wrote it, and remember him when he was dead and gone."

"I wish I could!" and Randal meant what he said, for he was as tired of his own style as a watchmaker might be of the magnifying glass through which he strains his eyes all day. He knew that the heart was left out of his work, and that both mind and soul were growing morbid with dwelling on the faulty, absurd, and metaphysical phases of life and character. He often threw down his pen and vowed he would write no more; but he loved ease, and the books brought money readily. He was accustomed to the stimulant of praise and missed it as the inebriate misses his wine, so that which had once been a pleasure to himself and others was fast becoming a burden and a disappointment.

The brief pause which followed his involuntary betrayal of discontent was broken by Ruth, who exclaimed, with a girlish enthusiasm that overpowered girlish bashfulness:

"I think all the novels are splendid! I hope you will write hundreds more, and I shall live to read 'em."