Presently he looked up. The warlike Sam remained sitting
disconsolately in the coal-hod; his instructions suggested no
means of extrication. Forsaken Constance lay fainting on the
sofa, waiting for some one to chafe her hands and bathe her
temples. The strikingly handsome betrayer leant in sullen and
gloomy silence against the mantel-piece, ready to treat all
advances with stern and defiant obduracy. The benevolent uncle
stood with open arms and bland smile, never doubting but
that everybody was preparing for a simultaneous rush to, and
participation in, his embrace; and, finally, the pretty little
country girl, with her arms akimbo and her nose in the air,
remained mistress of the situation. Her unheard of innovation, of
having done something timely, sensible, and decisive, even
though not put down in the book, seemed to have paralyzed all the
others. Ah! she was the only one there who was not less than a
shadow. The author felt his desolate heart yearn towards her, and
the next moment found himself on his knees at her feet.

"Mary," cried he, "you are my only reality. The others are empty
and soulless, but you have a heart. They are the children of a
conceited brain and visionary experience; you, only, have I drawn
simply and unaffectedly, as you actually existed. Except for
you, whom I slighted and despised, my whole romance had been an
unmitigated falsehood. To you I owe my preservation from worse
than folly, and my initiation into true wisdom. Mary--dear
Mary, in return I have but one thing to offer you--my heart! Can
you--_will_ you not love me?"--

To his intense surprise, Mary, instead of evincing a becoming
sense of her romantic situation, burst forth into a merry peal
of laughter, and, catching him by one shoulder, gave him a hearty
shake.

"La sakes! Mr. Author, do wake up! did ever anybody hear such a
man!"

There was his room, his fire, his chair, his table, and his
closely-written manuscript lying quietly upon it. There was
he himself on his knees on the carpet, and--there was Mary the
house-maid, one hand holding the brimming tea-pot, the other held
by the author against his lips, and laughing and blushing in a
tumult of surprise, amusement and, perhaps, something better than
either.

"Did I say I loved you, Mary?" enquired the author, in a state of
bewilderment. "Never mind! I say now that I love you with all my
heart and soul, and ten times as much when awake, as when I was
dreaming! Will y