"Ten good lines out of four hundred, Emily--comparatively good, that is--and all the rest balderdash--balderdash, Emily." "I--suppose so," said Emily faintly. Her eyes brimmed with tears--her lips quivered. She could not help it. Pride was hopelessly submerged in the bitterness of her disappointment. She felt exactly like a candle that somebody had blown out. "What are you crying for? demanded Mr. Carpenter. Emily blinked away tears and tried to laugh. "I--I'm sorry--you think it's no good--" she said. Mr. Carpenter gave the desk a mighty thump. "No good! Didn't I tell you there were ten good lines? Jade, for ten righteous men Sodom had been spared." "Do you mean--that--after all--" The candle was being relighted again. "Of course, I mean. If at thirteen you can write ten good lines, at twenty you'll write ten times ten--if the gods are kind. Stop messing over months, though--and don't imagine you're a genius, either, if you have written ten decent lines. I think there's something trying to speak through you--but you'll have to make yourself a fit instrument for it. You've got to work hard and sacrifice--by gad, girl, you've chosen a jealous goddess. And she never lets her votaries go--not even when she shuts her ears forever to their plea."