was stamped with the name of the latest magazine to which he had dispatched his story. As he tore the flap open, his fingers trembled. He read the contents over at least twenty times.
My dear Mr. Kasson, they ran:
Will you please call to see me at your earliest convenience in regard to the story you sent me
Little Byron play on your harp! he cried aloud, and then tore down the street towards the library. He found Mary at her desk.
Mary! Mary! he cried, thrusting the letter in her face.
She read it at a glance.
Byron, she exclaimed, this is simply wonderful!
You didn't read it, he complained.
Why, of course, I did.
Well, read it again.
She obeyed him, to please him, scanning it more carefully this time, as if it were couched in obscure terms.
I'm so proud of you, she assured him.
You said I couldn't do it. You didn't believe in me. I told you I'd show you.
I hoped you could do it, Byron. You can't realize how delighted I am that you have succeeded. When are you going to see him?
