At this moment she was reflecting that after all it was something that her articles had been returned--the editors had evidently thought them worth that much trouble--she would send them an off again in the morning, trying; the _Athenian_ article with the _Decade_, and the rejected of the _Decade_ with the _Bystander_: they would see that she did not cringe before one failure or many.

Gathering up the loose pages of one article to put them back, her eyes ran mechanically again over its opening sentences.

Suddenly something magnetized them, a new interest flashed into them; with a little nervous movement she brought the page closer to the candle and looked at it carefully.

As she looked she blushed crimson, and dropping the paper, covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, _Buddha!_" she cried softly, struggling with her mortification, "no wonder they rejected it! There's a mistake in the very second line--a mistake in _spelling!_" She felt her face grow hotter as she said it, and instinctively she lowered her voice.

Her vanity was pricked as with a sword; for a moment she suffered keenly.
Her fabric of hope underwent a horrible collapse; the blow was at its very foundation.