A writing, New York bachelor of forty tells the story of a poor young widow and her baby who occupy rooms across the hall from his on the top floor. The widow regains her marvelous voice so that fame and fortune attend her and the writer despairs of winning her love; but it's a top-floor idyl so some things have to be.
"If I went without boots, benevolent old ladies would stop me and hand out copper pennies," I remarked, without jealousy.
"You just wait till the 'Land o' Love' is out, old man," he told me, "and the same old dames will write for your autograph."
Gordon is quite daffy over the book I sent to my publishers last week. He has read the first, one middle and the last chapter, and predicts great things for it. Of course, I know better, for it will be just like the others. From four to six thousand copies sold, a few flattering notices, mostly in journals unheard of, and swift oblivion after some months. But I care nothing that I may be a scrub among writers, for the occupation suits me. I am not ambitious, and I can rise late in the morning, pound the keys of my old machine for an hour before lunch, waste a good part of the afternoon in one of the libraries, and go to work again after the hand-organs and knife-grinders have been abed some hours. Then, some time before sunrise, the rattle of