One Saturday morning, some days subsequent to her visit to the
Grahams, Beulah set off for the business part of the city. She was
closely veiled, and carried under her shawl a thick roll of neatly
written paper. A publishing house was the place of her destination;
and, as she was ushered into a small back room, to await the leisure
of the gentleman she wished to see, she could not forbear smiling at
the novelty of her position and the audacity of the attempt she was
about to make. There she sat in the editor's sanctum, trying to
quiet the tumultuous beating of her heart. Presently a tall, spare
man, with thin, cadaverous visage, entered, bowed, took a chair, and
eyed her with a "what-do-you-want" sort of expression. His grizzled
hair was cut short, and stood up like bristles, and his keen blue
eyes were by no means promising, in their cold glitter. Beulah threw
off her veil and said, with rather an unsteady voice: "You are the editor of the magazine published here, I believe?"

He bowed again, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands at
the back of his head.

"I came to offer you an article for the magazine." She threw down
the roll of paper on a chair.

"Ah!--hem!--will you favor me with your name?"

"Beulah Benton, sir. One altogether unknown to fame."