“How long do you suppose it will be before you hear from it?” she asked.
“It shouldn’t be longer than a fortnight. Oh, how happy and proud I shall be if
it is accepted!”
“Of course it will be accepted, and they will likely ask you to send them more.
You may be as famous as Mrs. Morgan some day, Anne, and then how proud I’ll
be of knowing you,” said Diana, who possessed, at least, the striking merit of an
unselfish admiration of the gifts and graces of her friends.
A week of delightful dreaming followed, and then came a bitter awakening.
One evening Diana found Anne in the porch gable, with suspicious-looking
eyes. On the table lay a long envelope and a crumpled manuscript.
“Anne, your story hasn’t come back?” cried Diana incredulously.
“Yes, it has,” said Anne shortly.
“Well, that editor must be crazy. What reason did he give?”
“No reason at all. There is just a printed slip saying that it wasn’t found
acceptable.”
“I never thought much of that magazine, anyway,” said Diana hotly. “The
stories in it are not half as interesting as those in the Canadian Woman, although
it costs so much more. I suppose the editor is prejudiced against any one who
isn’t a Yankee. Don’t be discouraged, Anne. Remember how Mrs. Morgan’s
stories came back. Send yours to the Canadian Woman.”
“I believe I will,” said Anne, plucking up heart. “And if it is published I’ll
send that American editor a marked copy. But I’ll cut the sunset out. I believe
Mr. Harrison was right.”
Out came the sunset; but in spite of this heroic mutilation the editor of the
Canadian Woman sent Averil’s Atonement back so promptly that the indignant
Diana declared that it couldn’t have been read at all, and vowed she was going to
stop her subscription immediately. Anne took this second rejection with the
calmness of despair. She locked the story away in the garret trunk where the old
Story Club tales reposed; but first she yielded to Diana’s entreaties and gave her
a copy.
“This is the end of my literary ambitions,” she said bitterly.
She never mentioned the matter to Mr. Harrison, but one evening he asked her
bluntly if her story had been accepted.
“No, the editor wouldn’t take it,” she answered briefly.
Mr. Harrison looked sidewise at the flushed, delicate profile.