He had not the heart to tell me of it then. Nor did he insinuate
his consciousness that the dedication might seem to involve him--as it
did in certain citadels of stupidity--in the views of the book.
The story was sent to its publishers, Messrs. Ticknor and Fields, and
leisurely awaited their verdict. As I had written somewhat for their
magazines, "The Atlantic" and "Our Young Folks," I did not come as
quite a stranger. Still, the fate of the book hung upon a delicate
scale. It was two years from the time the story went to its publishers
before it appeared between covers. How much of this period the author
was kept in suspense I cannot remember; but, I think, some time.
I have the impression that the disposal of the book, so far as that
firm went, wavered for a while upon the decision of one man, whose
wife shared the reading of the manuscript. "Take it," she said at
last, decidedly; and the fiat went forth. The lady afterwards became
a personal friend, and I hope I may not forfeit the treasure of her
affection by this late and public recognition of the pleasant part she
bore in the fortunes of my life.
The book was accepted, and still this piece of good luck did not make
my head spin. I had lived among book-makers too much to expect
the miracle. I went soberly back to my hack work, and on with my
Sunday-school books.
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