She wrote her novel in secret, and one day, accompanied by that good-natured Poppy Jenkins and sweet little Daisy, went Citywards, and simply plunged--for I can use no other word--into the unknown and to me rather awful realm of publishers.
"Poor child, of course none of the good houses would even look at her immature productions; but she was taken in by a man who professed himself to be the editor of a monthly paper--_The Joy-bell_ was its silly title.

On an understanding that her story was to be printed in the pages of _The Joy-bell_--of course I've never seen the paper, and should not dream of reading anything so rubbishy--poor Jasmine was induced to subscribe two pounds five shillings, or, in other words, to undertake to buy one hundred copies of _The Joy-bell_.

Of course she imagined that her printed words would immediately bring her fame.

She paid her money, and looked out for her story." "Where did she get the money from ?" thought the anxious reader.
"Primrose, how wrinkled up your brows are;" called out little Daisy.
Primrose sighed, and resumed her perusal of the closely-written sheets.
"On the very evening our little Daisy ran away Jasmine received her first proofs.

They were barbarously printed on wretched paper, but the poor child was in such trouble then that she scarcely noticed them.
Afterwards she did read them with care, and was surprised to find what a very small portion of her story had been printed.
"You know that I was unexpectedly detained in the country by the serious illness and death of my poor cousin.