One lovely evening in July, they were sitting together in the twilight, after a burial of the sun that had left great heaps of golden rubbish on the sides of his grave, in which little cherubs were busy dyeing their wings.
“Walter,” said Molly, “do you remember the little story—quite a little story, and not very clever—that I read when you were ill, called ‘Bootless Betty’?”
“I should think I do! I thought it one of the prettiest stories I had ever read, or heard read. Its fearless directness, without the least affectation of boldness, enchanted me. How one—clearly a woman—whose grammar was nowise to be depended upon, should yet get so swiftly and unerringly at what she wanted to say, has remained ever since a worshipful wonder to me. But I have seen something like it before, probably by the same writer!”
“You may have seen the same review of it I saw; it was in your own paper.”
“You don’t mean you take in ‘The Field Battery’?”
“We did. Your father went for it himself, every week regularly. But we could not always be sure which things you had written!”
Walter gave a sigh of distaste, but said nothing. The idea of that paper representing his mind to his father and Molly was painful to him.
“I have it here: may I read it to you?”
“Well—I don’t know!—if you like. I can’t say I care about reviews.”
“Of course not! Nobody should. They are only thoughts about thoughts about things. But I want you to hear this!” pleaded Molly, drawing the paper from her pocket.