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average Briton has, at heart, a considerable contempt, if not for literature, at least for those who produce it. Literature, in his mind, is connected with the idea of garrets and extreme poverty; and therefore, having the national respect for money, in secret, if not in public, he despises it. A tree is known by its fruits, says he. Let a man succeed at the Bar, and he makes thousands upon thousands a year, and is promoted to the highest offices in the State. Let a man succeed in art, and he will be paid five hundred or a thousand pounds apiece for his most "pot-boilery" portraits. But your literary men-why, with a few fortunate exceptions, the best of them barely make a living. What can literature be worth, if a man can't make a fortune out of it?

So argues the Briton-no doubt with some of his sound common-sense. Not that he has no respect for genius. All men bow to true genius, even when they fear and envy it. But he thinks a good deal more of genius dead than genius living. That is a thing to revile and throw stones at. However this may be, there is no doubt but that if through any cause—such, for instance, as the sudden discovery by the great and highly civilised American people that the eighth commandment was probably intended for the protection of authors, amongst the rest of the world—the pecuniary rewards of literary labour should

be put more upon an equality with those of other trades, literature-as a profession-will go up many steps in popular esteem. At present, if a member of a family has betaken himself to the high and honourable calling of letters (for surely it is both), his friends and relations are apt to talk about him in a shy and diffident, not to say apologetic, manner; much as they would had he adopted another sort of book-making as a means of livelihood.

Thus it was that, notwithstanding her success, Augusta had nowhere to turn in her difficulty. She had absolutely no literary connection. Nobody had called upon her, or sought her out in consequence of her book. One or two authors in London, and a few unknown people from different parts of the country and abroad, had written to her-that was all. Had she lived in town it might have been different; but, unfortunately for her, she did not.

The more she thought, the less clear did her path become; until, at last, she found inspiration. Why not leave England altogether? There was nothing to keep her here. She had a cousin-a clergyman-in New Zealand, whom she had never seen, but who had read " 'Jemima's Vow," and written her a kind letter about it. That was the only delightful thing about writing books: one made friends all over the world. Surely he would take her in for a while, and put her in

the way of earning a living where Meeson would not be to molest her? Why should she not go? She had twenty pounds left, and the furniture (which included an expensive invalid chair) and books would fetch another thirty or so-enough to pay for a second-class passage and leave a few pounds in her pocket. At the worst it would be a change, and she could not go through more there than she did here.

So that very night she sat down and wrote to her clergyman cousin.

F

CHAPTER V

THE R.M.S. "KANGAROO"

It was on a Tuesday evening that a mighty vessel steamed majestically out of the mouth of the Thames, and shaped her imposing course southward. Many people will remember reading descriptions of the steamship Kangaroo, and being astonished at the power of her engines, the beauty of her fittings, and the extraordinary speed-about eighteen knots-which she developed in her trials, with an unusually low expenditure of coal. For the benefit of those who have not, however, it may be stated that the Kangaroo, "The Little Kangaroo," as she was ironically named among sailor men, was the very latest development of the science of modern shipbuilding. Everything about her, from the electric light and boiler tubes up, was on a new and patent system

Four hundred feet and more she measured from stem to stern, and in that space were crowded and packed all the luxuries of a palace, and all the conveniences of an American hotel. She was a beautiful and a wonderful thing to look on; as, with her holds

full of costly merchandise, and her decks crowded with her living freight of about a thousand human beings, she steamed slowly out to sea, as though loth to leave the land where she was born. But presently she seemed to gather up her energies and to grow conscious of the thousands and thousands of miles of wide tossing seas, which stretched between her and the faroff harbour where her mighty heart should cease from beating and be for a while at rest. Quicker and quicker she sped along, and spurned the churning water from her swift sides.

She was running under a full head of steam now, and the coast-line of England grew faint and low in the faint, low light, till at last it almost vanished from the gaze of a tall, slim girl, who stood forward, clinging to the starboard bulwark netting, and looking with deep grey eyes across the waste of waters. Presently Augusta, for it was she, could see the shore no more, and turned to watch the other passengers and think. She was sad at heart, poor girl, and felt what she was- --a very waif upon the sea of life. Not that she had much to regret upon the vanished coastline. A little grave with a white cross over it—that was all. She had left no friends to weep for her, none. But even as she thought it, a recollection rose up in her mind of Eustace Meeson's pleasant, handsome face, and of his kind words, and with it came a pang

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