STORIES BY AMERICAN AUTHORS.
Volume 4
The Stories in this Volume are protected by copyright, and are printed here by authority of the authors or their representatives.
Stories by American Authors
VOLUME IV
MISS GRIEF
ByCONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES
ByH. C. BUNNER
TWO BUCKETS IN A WELL
ByN. P. WILLIS
FRIEND BARTON'S CONCERN
ByMARY HALLOCK FOOTE
AN INSPIRED LOBBYIST
ByJ. W. DE FOREST
LOST IN THE FOG
ByNOAH BROOKS
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1897
Copyright, 1884, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
MISS GRIEF.
By Constance Fenimore Woolson.
(Lippincott's Magazine, May,1880.)
"A conceited fool" is a not uncommon expression. Now, I know that I am not a fool, but I also know that I am conceited. But, candidly, can it be helped if one happens to be young, well and strong, passably good-looking, with some money that one has inherited and more that one has earned—in all, enough to make life comfortable—and if upon this foundation rests also the pleasant superstructure of a literary success? The success is deserved, I think: certainly it was not lightly-gained. Yet even with this I fully appreciate its rarity. Thus, I find myself very well entertained in life: I have all I wish in the way of society, and a deep, though of course carefully concealed, satisfaction in my own little fame; which fame I foster by a gentle system of non-interference. I know that I am spoken of as "that quiet young fellow who writes those delightful little studies of society, you know;" and I live up to that definition.
A year ago I was in Rome, and enjoying life particularly. I had a large number of my acquaintances there, both American and English, and no day passed without its invitation. Of course I understood it: it is seldom that you find a literary man who is good-tempered, well-dressed, sufficiently provided with money, and amiably obedient to all the rules and requirements of "society." "When found, make a note of it;" and the note was generally an invitation.
One evening, upon returning to my lodgings, my man Simpson informed me that a person had called in the afternoon, and upon learning that I was absent had left not a card, but her name—"Miss Grief." The title lingered—Miss Grief! "Grief has not so far visited me here," I said to myself, dismissing Simpson and seeking my little balcony for a final smoke, "and she shall not now. I shall take care to be 'not at home' to her if she continues to call." And then I fell to thinking of Isabel Abercrombie, in whose society I had spent that