Go on,' answered his mother, with a grateful glance about her happy home.
'A literary youth of eighteen proposes that you put your name to a novel he has written; and after the first edition your name is to be taken off and his put on.

There's a cool proposal for you.

I guess you won't agree to that, in spite of your soft-heartedness towards most of the young scribblers.' 'Couldn't be done.

Tell him so kindly, and don't let him send the manuscript.

I have seven on hand now, and barely time to read my own,' said Mrs Jo, pensively fishing a small letter out of the slop-bowl and opening it with care, because the down-hill address suggested that a child wrote it.
'I will answer this myself.