There had been sundry incidental
calls for money. Mother Carey had been disappointed in the sale of a
somewhat ambitious set of groups from Fouque's "Seasons," which were
declared abstruse and uninteresting to the public. She had accepted
an order for some very humble work, not much better than chimney
ornaments, for which she rose early, and toiled while Babie was out
driving with her friends. When she had the money for this she would
be more at ease, and if it came to a little more than she durst
reckon upon, she could venture on some extras.
"Babie might earn it for herself; she is full of inventions."
"There is nothing more strongly impressed on me than that those
children are not to begin being made literary hacks before they are
come to maturity. One Christmas tale a year is the utmost I ought to
allow."
"I wish I could be a literary hack, or anything else," sighed poor
Allen.
It was the first time he really let himself understand what a burden
he was, and as Fordham was one of those people who involuntarily
almost draw out confidence, he talked it over with him. Allen
himself was convinced, by having really tried, that he was not as
availably clever as others of his family. Whether nature or dawdling
was to blame, he had neither originality nor fire.
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