alled Jimmy until late in life, it shows that people
have an affection for him, and every one who knew Spence was sorry he
had disappeared, and hoped that no evil had overtaken him.

It was a year after the disappearance that a wan, living skeleton
staggered out of the wilderness in Africa, and blindly groped his way
to the coast as a man might who had lived long in darkness and found
the light too strong for his eyes. He managed to reach a port, and
there took steamer homeward bound for Southampton. The sea-breezes
revived him somewhat, but it was evident to all the passengers that he
had passed through a desperate illness. It was just a toss-up whether
he could live until he saw England again. It was impossible to guess at
his age, so heavy a hand had disease laid upon him, and he did not seem
to care to make acquaintances, but kept much to himself, sitting
wrapped up in his chair, gazing with a tired-out look at the green
ocean.

A young girl frequently sat in a chair near him, ostensibly reading,
but more often glancing sympathetically at the wan figure beside her.
Many times she seemed about to speak to him, but apparently hesitated
to do so, for the man took no notice of his fellow-passengers. At
length, however, she mustered up courage to address him, and said:
"There is a good story in this magazine: perhaps you would like to read
it?"

He turned his eyes from the sea and rested them vacantly upon her face
for a moment. His dark moustache added to the pallor of his face, but
did not conceal the faint smile that came to his lips; he had heard
her, but had not understood.

"What did you say?" he asked, gently.

"I said there was a good story here, entitled 'Author! Author!' and I
thought you might like to read it," and the girl blushed very prettily
as she said this, for the man looked younger than he had done before he
smiled.

"I am afraid," said the man, slowly, "that I have forgotten how to
read. It is a long time since I have seen a book or a magazine. Won't
you tell me the story? I would much rather hear it from you than make
an attempt to read it myself in the magazine."

"Oh," she cried, breathlessly, "I'm not sure that I could tell it; at
any rate, not as well as the author does; but I will read it to you if
you like."

The story was about a man who had written a play, and who thought, as
every playwright thinks, that it was a great addition to the drama, and
would bring him fame and fortune. H