He demurred at first. "I have told you how stupid it sounds, these
disconnected bits, little descriptions, detached conversations.
Sometimes I think I shall never use them after all." He fingered the
pages absently.
"No, read it to me as it is," I begged. "I must hear it. I understand,
of course, how it is written."
And so, yielding to my entreaties, he read, while I leaned back against
the tree trunk, listening at first critically, and interested, perhaps,
because it was his work, then with clasped hands and shortening breath,
leaning forward that I might lose no word. A little squirrel scampered
through the undergrowth back of us, and far in another field I could
hear Mr. Hopper's quavering voice, as he called to the haymakers.
Sometimes a leaf rustled, falling to the ground, but it was very quiet.
At last he laid down the leaves, and fixed his dark eyes eagerly on my
face, as if he would read my thoughts, but my eyes were full of tears,
and they were selfish tears. "My poor book!" I said, with a tender
contempt for it.
"Do you mean--?" he began increduously.
"I mean that this is wonderful, and that I know I shall never write
again," I said. "I do not know how it is, but I can read by the light of
your book that you have genius, and that I am a failure. It is well that
something brought it home to me before I wasted any more time.
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