you have not found the right one-then that story will always stop and decline to go any farther. In the story of Joan of Arc I made six wrong starts, and each time that I offered the result to Mrs. Clemens she responded with the same deadly criticism-silence. She didn't say a word, but her silence spoke with the voice of thunder. When at last I found the right form I recognized at once that it was the right one, and I knew what she would say. She said it, without doubt or hesitation.

In the course of twelve years I made six attempts to tell a simple little story which I knew would tell itself in four hours if I could ever find the right starting-point. I scored six failures; then one day in London I offered the text of the story to Robert McClure, and proposed that he publish that text in the magazine and offer a prize to the person who should tell it best. I became greatly interested and went on talking upon the text for half an hour; then he said:

"You have told the story yourself. You have nothing to do but put it on paper just as you have told it."

I recognized that this was true. At the end of four hours it was finished, and quite to my satisfaction. So it took twelve years and four hours to produce that little bit of a story, which I have called "The Death Wafer."

To start right is certainly an essential. I have proved this too many times to doubt it. Twenty-five or thirty years ago I began a story which was to turn upon the marvels of mental telegraphy. A man was to invent a scheme whereby he could synchronize two minds, thousands of miles apart, and enable them to freely converse together through the air without the aid of a wire. Four times I started it in the wrong way, and it wouldn't go. Three times I discovered my mistake after writing about a hundred pages. I discovered it the fourth time when I had written four hundred pages then I gave it up and put the whole thing in the fire.

A YOUNG AUTHOR SENDS MARK
TWAIN A BOOK

Another of those peculiarly depressing letters a letter cast in artificially huorous form, whilst no art could make the subject humorous to me.

The Letter

DEAR SIR:-I have written a book naturally, which fact, however, since I am not your enemy need give you no occasion to rejoice. Nor need you grieve, though I am sending you a copy. If I knew of any way of compelling you to read it I would do so, but unless the first few pages have that effect, I can do nothing. Try the first few pages. I have done a great deal more than that with your books, so perhaps you owe me something-say ten pages. If after that attempt you put it aside, I shall be sorryfor you!

I am afraid that the above looks flippantbut think of the twitterings of the soul of him who brings in his hand an unbidden book, written by himself. To such a one much is due in the way of indulgence. Will you remember that? Have you forgotten early twitterings of your own?

Comment Following the Letter

The coat-of-arms of the human race ought to consist of a man with an ax on his shoulder proceeding toward a grindstone. Or, it ought to represent the several members of the human race holding out the hat to each other. For we are all beggars. Each in his own way. One beggar is too proud to beg for pennies, but will beg a loan of dollars, knowing he can't repay; another will not beg a loan, but will beg for a postmastership; another will not do that but will beg for an introduction to "society"; one, being rich, will not beg a hod of coal of the railway company, but will beg a pass; his neighbor will not beg coal nor pass, but in social converse with a lawyer will place before him a supposititious case in the hope of getting an opinion out of him for nothing; one who would disdain to beg for any of these things will beg frankly for the Presidency. None of the lot is ashamed

want her. I guess Horace wouldn't care. You're welcome to her."

"But I am glad to pay you. I want to pay."

"I couldn't let you-not for a thing was give me. And you was a friend of Horace, so to speak."

He took up the image with pleased fingers. The uplifted stiffness of the arm and the rigid tomahawk seemed remotely withdrawn-dreamlike.

The little image would travel with him into strange lands. It linked him with Chisingham.

He took a packet of stones from his pocket and selected one, then he glanced at the iron figure and replaced the jewel and returned the packet to his pocket. His fingers sought his vest pocket and brought out the star-sapphire. He held it toward her.

"Perhaps you will let me give you this?"

She took it in pleased surprise.

"It's real pretty!" she said. "Thank you."

He smiled drily. "You can take good care of it, you know. Don't let anybody steal it."

"Oh, nobody on the Island would steal," she said. "I'll have it set in a ring." She laid it against her work-worn finger a minute and shook her head.

"They've worked too hard!" she said. "I'll have a pin made of it."

He reached a hand. “Let me take it. I'll have it set for you."

But her fingers held to the stone. "Mary can do it for me. She does real

"Let me take it," he said. "I will show her how to set it. I know just the pattern it needs for your gray hair."

Her face flushed a little. "I know it's getting gray, but I can't help it."

He laughed a little. "It is getting beautiful!" he said. "When you wear this with it, it will be fairly white!" "Mercy me; I hope not!"

He

But he only laughed again. would see Mary Starling, tell her how the stone must be set. And then he would be off. He was a free man, free to come and go.

He was strangely light-hearted.

He had burned his ships behind him. He must find another gem to replace the one he had given her. He would be off to-morrow to upper India-it was waiting. His pulse beat quickly.

The woman was looking at him curiously.

"You look real rested!" she said. "I am rested!" He stretched his arms. "I must be off to-morrow."

"If you will let me see it—"

But he drew a piece of paper toward him and sketched a few lines and crossed them.

"This is what I want, the corners like this." He sketched swiftly. Her eyes, following the pencil, glowed a little, but her face was quiet.

"I cannot tell till I see the stone," she said.

He glared at her a full minute. Then he laughed.

He drew the sapphire from his pocket and threw it on the bench. It rolled a

boiled an egg and brought lettuce from the tiny garden. She spread a napkin and ate her luncheon at her work-bench before the window, looking across to Chisingham's forge standing silent among the spruces.

Peter Collins came in very late to his dinner, and his landlady looked at him with rebuking motherly eyes.

It's a bad

"You're all tuckered out!" "I forgot it was dinner time." "Folks do sometimes. sign." She smiled. "Shows your liver's wrong. You set right there and I'll bring in a tray." She departed and came back with a heaped-up tray, and seated herself to see that he did justice to it.

"You eat all of it," she said. "It'll do you good. Where you been?"

"All over the Island-everywhere." "Folks do the first day. It's because it's an Island, I guess-they want to see the whole of it first-off, like you do a man. Folks can't wait to get acquainted, not if they're anyways attracted to each other." She looked at him over her spectacles and he laughed out. He felt rested with her. They were all alike, these Island people-salt with the tang of the sea.

Before she came in he had been looking at a small iron figure on the mantle and he moved a hand to it—

"Chisingham's?" he asked.

She turned. "Yes. Horace Chisingham made it."

She got up and went over to the shelf and took down the figure and dusted it with her apron. "He give it to me before he died. I set store by it. It's a soldier." She placed it on the tray, and it stood there while Peter ate his dinner and listened to her quaint garrulous talk.

When he had finished he took it up. It was a rudely wrought figure in uniform, fashioned with the same stiff precision as the one upstairs in his room.

"There is another one in my room," he said, "a woman."

She nodded. "That's Pocahontas.

He made her, too-leastways he said it was Pocahontas. I don't know how he ever could tell what she looked like."

She removed the figure from the tray and placed it on the table and carried the tray from the room.

Peter sat looking at the iron image. He was curiously excited. . . . He had patronized Chisingham, looked down on him a little and now he saw him looming a dusky figure, a creator-and beside him Peter Collins, the little man picking up pebbles. . . And he saw suddenly the woman in Chisingham's doorway and her eyes looking at him-waiting for him to speak-a dream-woman. He shook himself.

The Island was getting in his blood! He must be off. He could almost fancy himself entering the latticed doorway, stooping a little to go in. . . . He could see her eyes, waiting. What color were they?-and the light shining in them— a mist like stars. . . He shook himself again. He would be off to-morrow, to upper India and the emerald.. Of course it was star-emerald, as the sailor had hinted. He had been foolish to doubt it.

He put out his hand and closed on the little iron figure. He would take it with him for a talisman.

The door opened and the woman came in. She brought the figure of Pocahontas and placed it on the table by the soldier, and stood back looking at them.

"I don't know why he ever made 'em. He seemed possessed to-along awhile before he died."

Peter Collins reached out a hand.
"Could you sell me one of these?"
"Land, no-I

"Sell!" She stared. couldn't sell it to you. couldn't sell it to you. ham give 'em to me!"

Why, Chising

want her. I guess Horace wouldn't care. You're welcome to her."

"But I am glad to pay you. I want to pay."

"I couldn't let you-not for a thing was give me. And you was a friend of Horace, so to speak."

He took up the image with pleased fingers. The uplifted stiffness of the arm and the rigid tomahawk seemed remotely withdrawn-dreamlike. . . . The little image would travel with him. into strange lands. It linked him with Chisingham.

...

He took a packet of stones from his pocket and selected one, then he glanced at the iron figure and replaced the jewel and returned the packet to his pocket. His fingers sought his vest pocket and brought out the star-sapphire. He held it toward her.

"Perhaps you will let me give you this?"

She took it in pleased surprise.

"It's real pretty!" she said. "Thank you."

He smiled drily. "You can take good care of it, you know. Don't let anybody steal it."

"Oh, nobody on the Island would steal," she said. "I'll have it set in a ring." She laid it against her work-worn finger a minute and shook her head.

"They've worked too hard!" she said. "I'll have a pin made of it."

He reached a hand. “Let me take it. I'll have it set for you."

But her fingers held to the stone. "Mary can do it for me. She does real pretty ones."

He turned a question:

"Mary Starling," she nodded. She works up in Chisingham's old house. She's got a shop."

"Mary Starling! He saw the child by the sea, and he remembered. . . So that was Mary Starling in Chisingham's door! . . . The morning by the sea came flooding back-the child holding up her apron. . . . So that was Mary Starling! He reached a decisive hand for the stone.

VOL. CXLV.-No. 867.-39

"Let me take it," he said. “I will show her how to set it. I know just the pattern it needs for your gray hair."

Her face flushed a little. "I know it's getting gray, but I can't help it."

He laughed a little. "It is getting beautiful!" he said. "When you wear this with it, it will be fairly white!" "Mercy me; I hope not!"

He

But he only laughed again. would see Mary Starling, tell her how the stone must be set. And then he would be off. He was a free man, free to come and go.

He was strangely light-hearted.

He had burned his ships behind him. He must find another gem to replace the one he had given her. He would be off to-morrow to upper India-it was waiting. His pulse beat quickly.

The woman was looking at him curiously.

"You look real rested!" she said. "I am rested!" He stretched his arms. "I must be off to-morrow."

"I have brought a jewel for a setting." She seated herself, her tremor was gone.

"If you will let me see it—”

But he drew a piece of paper toward him and sketched a few lines and crossed them.

"This is what I want, the corners like this." He sketched swiftly. Her eyes, following the pencil, glowed a little, but her face was quiet.

"I cannot tell till I see the stone," she said.

He glared at her a full minute. Then he laughed.

He drew the sapphire from his pocket and threw it on the bench. It rolled a

little and came to rest in a gleam of sunlight.

"Oh!" She leaned forward with clasped hands. She did not touch it.

His grim little smile watched her. Emotion touched his face. He had forgotten the wonder of the stone-now it came flooding back with the wonder of her bent neck.

"It is wonderful!" She looked up. He nodded. His eye gleamed.

“And very valuable!" she said. She took it in her reverent fingers, turning it. "I must think!" she murmured. "This is what I want." He touched the paper. But she only smiled. dreamily.

"I want to think of it. I must watch it awhile. You will leave it with me?" She looked up.

What color were her eyes? He stared at them a minute. She flushed a little. "You will leave it with me?” she repeated. His look left her eyes. pushed the sketch toward her.

He

"What is wrong with that?" She smiled and bent to it. "It is very pretty," she said, "almost too pretty for this!" She touched the stone.

He laughed out-grudgingly. "You are right!"

"And it makes a difference who is to wear it," she went on thoughtfully. "If I could see a picture or you could describe a little."

She had picked up the sapphire and was handling it with slow gentle touch that seemed to kindle the blue fire in it. He watched her with a little glint.

"You don't need any picture. You know her well. It is Mrs. Whitney." The stone slipped from her fingers. "Does she know?"

"Yes-and that you are going to set it."

"I mean-does she know its value?" He laughed out. "She doesn't dream of it. She thinks it is 'real pretty."

His hand slipped to his pocket and drew out Pocahontas. He stood her on her firm flat feet on the work-bench and smiled whimsically.

"We exchanged treasures, this for that."

The girl stared at it, "Chisingham's!" she murmured. Her eyes held a look of pleasure. She took it up-her hand touched it gently.

His eye followed jealously. "I am taking it with me—a talisman. I leave the Island to-morrow." His voice proclaimed it happily. He was free-free to come and free to go-free to come and free to go. The sound of the bellbuoy swung between them, swaying in the waves, submerged. He hesitated a minute and went on, as if compelled:

"I have had word of a stone more wonderful than that-" he nodded to the sapphire-"an emerald of great beauty a star-emerald, they tell me; but, of course, it cannot be a staremerald." .. The word lingered hauntingly, and she saw a child with her apron upgathered to catch the gleaming jewels as they fell; she heard the music of jewel-names.

"A star-emerald!" she said musingly. He laughed harshly. "They call it that. But, of course, it can not be!"

"Why not?" She lifted her eyes. What color were they? He stared and turned away. "There isn't such a thing, you know."

"No, I didn't know." The word was quiet. There was a cadence in her voice that puzzled him. Lying awake that night, he knew it was the sound of the sea in her voice.

"The stone is too hard," he explained kindly. "A star could not form in the crystal. No one ever saw a star-emerald -and no one ever will!" He laughed.

But her lifted eyes only regarded him thoughtfully.

"If there were one, one as large as this"-her finger touched the sapphire on the bench-"it would be very valuable?"

"So valuable that I-" He broke off.

Her look dropped to the sapphire under her finger. She rolled it a little aside and watched the blue light in it change to fire, and looked up with a