and be quick about it."'

"Did she speak in that shameful way to the other girls?"

"Oh, no! I was taken into her school for nothing, and, young as I
was, I was expected to earn my food and shelter by being fit to
teach the lowest class. The girls hated me. It was such a
wretched life that I hardly like to speak of it now. I ran away,
and I was caught, and severely punished. When I grew older and
wiser, I tried to find some other employment for myself. The
elder girls bought penny journals that published stories. They
were left about now and then in the bedrooms. I read the stories
when I had the chance. Even my ignorance discovered how feeble
and foolish they were. They encouraged me to try if I could write
a story myself; I couldn't do worse, and I might do better. I
sent my manuscript to the editor. It was accepted and
printed--but when I wrote and asked him if he would pay me
something for it, he refused. Dozens of ladies, he said, wrote
stories for him for nothing. It didn't matter what the stories
were. Anything would do for his readers, so long as the
characters were lords and ladies, and there was plenty of love in
it. My next attempt to get away from the school ended in another
disappointment. A poor old man, who had once been an actor, used
to come to us twice a week, and get a few shillings by teaching
the girls to read aloud. He was called 'Professor of English
Literature,' and he taught out of a ragged book of verses which
smelled of his pipe. I learned one of the pieces and repeated it
to him, and asked if there was any hope of my being able to go on
the stage. He was very kind; he told me the truth. 'My dear, you
have no dramatic ability; God forbid you should go on the stage.'