pectability. He was a tall, thin young
man, with light hair and mustache and large blue eyes. His back was
towards the window, so that his face was in the shadow, and he did not
rise as they entered. The room in which he sat was a prettily furnished
one, opening into another tiny room, which, from the number of books in
it, might have been called a library. The rooms had a well-to-do, even
prosperous, air, but they did not show any evidences of a pronounced
taste on the part of their owner, either in the way in which they were
furnished or in the decorations of the walls. A little girl of about
seven or eight years of age, who was standing between her father's
knees, with a hand on each, and with her head thrown back on his
shoulder, looked up at the two visitors with evident interest, and
smiled brightly.

"Mr. Aram?" asked the editor, tentatively.

The young man nodded, and the two visitors seated themselves.

"I wish to talk to you on a matter of private business," the editor
began. "Wouldn't it be better to send the little girl away?"

The child shook her head violently at this, and crowded up closely to
her father; but he held her away from him gently, and told her to "run
and play with Annie."

She passed the two visitors, with her head held scornfully in air, and
left the men together. Mr. Aram seemed to have a most passive and
incurious disposition. He could have no idea as to who his anonymous
visitors might be, nor did he show any desire to know.

"I am the editor of ----," the editor began. "My friend also writes for
that periodical. I have received several poems from you lately, Mr.
Aram, and one in particular which we all liked very much. It was called
'Bohemia.' But it is so like one that has appeared under the same title
in the '---- Magazine' that I thought I would see you about it, and ask
you if you could explain the similarity. You see," he went on, "it would
be less embarrassing if you would do so now than later, when the poem
has been published and when people might possibly accuse you of
plagiarism." The editor smiled encouragingly and waited.

Mr. Aram crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap.
He exhibited no interest, and looked drowsily at the editor. When he
spoke it was in a tone of unstudied indifference. "I never wrote a poem
called 'Bohemia,'" he said, slowly; "at least, if I did I don't remember
it."

The editor had not expected a flat denial, and it irritate