She had actually sent her manuscripts to magazines, but
she had heard no more of one, and the other had been returned declined
with thanks--all for want of an introduction. Dolores was delighted to
promise that as soon as she heard from Uncle Alfred, she would get him
to patronize them, and the reading occupied several Sunday afternoons.
Dolores suggested, however, that a goody-goody story about a choir-boy
lost in the snow would never do for the Many Tongues, and a far more
exciting one was taken up, called 'The Waif of the Moorland,' being the
story of a maiden, whom a wicked step-mother was suspected of
murdering, but who walked from time to time like the 'Woman in White.'
There was only too much time for the romance; for weeks passed and
there was no answer from Mr. Flinders. It was possible that he might
have broken off his connection with the paper, only then the letter
would probably have been returned; and the other alternative was less
agreeable, that it was not worth his while to write to his niece.
While as to Maude Sefton, nothing was heard of her. Were her letters
intercepted? And so the winter side of autumn set in. Hal was gone to
Oxford, and there had been time for letters to come from Mr. Mohun,
posted from Auckland, New Zealand, where he had made a halt with his
sister, Mrs. Harry May, otherwise Aunt Phyllis. Dolores was very much
pleased to receive her letter, and to have it all to herself; but,
after all, she was somewhat disappointed in it, for there was really
nothing in it that might not have been proclaimed round the breakfast-
table, like the public letters from that quarter of the family who were
at Rawul Pindee.
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