You have now become a yardstick yourself.

Seven of your thin little volumes are on my shelves; and there are two thicker volumes, the essays, which, you will pardon my saying, and I know not which is flattered more, fully equal your verse.

The time is not far distant when some unknown will arise in England and the critics will name her the English Maud Brewster." "You are very kind, I am sure," she murmured; and the very conventionality of her tones and words, with the host of associations it aroused of the old life on the other side of the world, gave me a quick thrill--rich with remembrance but stinging sharp with home-sickness.
"And you are Maud Brewster," I said solemnly, gazing across at her.
"And you are Humphrey Van Weyden," she said, gazing back at me with equal solemnity and awe.

"How unusual! I don't understand.

We surely are not to expect some wildly romantic sea-story from your sober pen." "No, I am not gathering material, I assure you," was my answer.