We had read somewhere that a novelist is better equipped than most of his trade if he knows himself and one woman, and my mother said, 'You know yourself, for everybody must know himself' (there never was a woman who knew less about herself than she), and she would add dolefully, 'But I doubt I'm the only woman you know well.' 'Then I must make you my heroine,' I said lightly.
'A gey auld-farrant-like heroine!' she said, and we both laughed at the notion--so little did we read the future.
Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications when I was rashly engaged as a leader-writer (it was my sister who saw the advertisement) on an English provincial paper.

At the moment I was as uplifted as the others, for the chance had come at last, with what we all regarded as a prodigious salary, but I was wanted in the beginning of the week, and it suddenly struck me that the leaders were the one thing I had always skipped.

Leaders! How were they written?
what were they about?
My mother was already sitting triumphant among my socks, and I durst not let her see me quaking.

I retired to ponder, and presently she came to me with the daily paper.

Which were the leaders?
she wanted to know, so evidently I could get no help from her.