Yes, there was a pale-blue slip
of paper with serrated edges. She leaned against a Baldwin apple-tree to
think.
How true it is that one should be prepared for the unexpected. Melinda
had sent out many manuscripts freighted with tingling hopes and eager
aspirations and with the postage stamps that insured their prompt
return; how was she to know, by what process of reasoning could she
infer that this, that had been offered simply from force of habit, would
be retained in exchange for an aesthetically tinted check? She
anathematized the magazine editor. (That seems the proper thing to do
with editors.) She wanted to know what business he had to keep that
story after having led her to believe that it was his unbreakable custom
to send them back. It was deception, she told the swelling Baldwin buds,
base, deep-dyed, subtle deception. After baiting her on with his little,
pink, printed rejection slips, he suddenly sprung a wicked trap.
It was some time before Melinda grew calm enough to read the editorial
letter. It ran:
_"Dear Madam--We are glad to have your tender and delicately
sympathetic picture of village life. There is a note of true
sentiment and a generous appreciation of homely virtue marking this
story for which we desire to add an especial word of praise.
Pages:
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203