Stories by American Authors

Stories by American Authors
(Volume 4), by

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories by American Authors
(Volume 4), by Constance Fenimore Woolson and H. C. Bunner and N.
P. Willis and Mary Hallock Foote and J. W. De Forest
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Title: Stories by American Authors (Volume 4)
Author: Constance Fenimore Woolson H. C. Bunner N. P. Willis Mary
Hallock Foote J. W. De Forest
Release Date: August 25, 2007 [EBook #22401]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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BY AMERICAN AUTHORS ***

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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.
[Illustration: Noah Brooks]

Stories by American Authors
VOLUME IV
MISS GRIEF By CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES By H. C. BUNNER
TWO BUCKETS IN A WELL By N. P. WILLIS
FRIEND BARTON'S CONCERN By MARY HALLOCK FOOTE
AN INSPIRED LOBBYIST By J. W. DE FOREST
LOST IN THE FOG By NOAH BROOKS

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1897
Copyright, 1884, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Transcriber's Note: In the story LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES, the
circumflex (^) is used to indicate that the letters following it are printed
in superscript type.

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 and
many evenings: they were golden thoughts.
The next day there was an excursion; it was late when I reached my
rooms, and again Simpson informed me that Miss Grief had called.
"Is she coming continuously?" I said, half to myself.
"Yes, sir: she mentioned that she should call again."
"How does she look?"
"Well, sir, a lady, but not so prosperous as she was, I should say,"
answered Simpson, discreetly.
"Young?"
"No, sir."
"Alone?"
"A maid with her, sir."
But once outside in my little high-up balcony with my cigar, I again
forgot Miss Grief and whatever she might represent. Who would not
forget in that moonlight, with Isabel Abercrombie's face to remember?
The stranger came a third time, and I was absent; then she let two days
pass, and began again. It grew to be a regular dialogue between
Simpson and myself when I came in at night: "Grief to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"What time?"
"Four, sir."
"Happy the man," I thought, "who can keep her confined to a particular
hour!"

But I should not have treated my