A little before twelve o'clock last night, my husband dictated to
me the last words of "The Yellow Mask." I laid down the pen, and
closed the paper thoughtfully. With that simple action the work
that we had wrought at together so carefully and so long came to
a close. We were both so silent and still, that the murmuring of
the trees in the night air sounded audibly and solemnly in our
room.
William's collection of stories has not, thus far, been half
exhausted yet; but those who understand the public taste and the
interests of bookselling better than we, think it advisable not
to risk offering too much to the reader at first. If individual
opinions can be accepted as a fair test, our prospects of success
seem hopeful. The doctor (but we must not forget that he is a
friend) was so pleased with the two specimen stories we sent to
him, that he took them at once to his friend, the editor of the
newspaper, who showed his appreciation of what he read in a very
gratifying manner. He proposed that William should publish in the
newspaper, on very fair terms, any short anecdotes and curious
experiences of his life as a portrait-painter, which might not be
important enough to put into a book. The money which my husband
has gained from time to time in this way has just sufficed to pay
our expenses at the farmhouse up to within the last month; and
now our excellent friends here say they will not hear anything
more from us on the subject of the rent until the book is sold
and we have plenty of money.
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