came a slave of the lamp; her work grew
marvelously under her pen. Her little people led her a merry chase; they
whispered in her ears night and day; she got no rest of them--but rose
again and again to put down the clever things they said, and so, almost
before she knew it, her novel had grown into three fine English volumes
with inch-broad margins, half-inch spacings, large type and heavy paper.
She was amazed to find how important her work had become.

Fortune favored her. She found a publisher who was ready to bring out
her book at once; two sets of proofs were forwarded to her; these she
corrected with deep delight, returning one to her London publisher and
sending one to America, where another publisher was ready to issue the
work simultaneously with the English print.

It made its appearance under a pen-name in England--anonymously in
America. What curiosity it awakened may be judged by the instantaneous
success of the work in both countries: Tauchnitz at once added it to his
fascinating list; the French and German translators negotiated for the
right to run it as a serial in Paris and Berlin journals. Considerable
curiosity was awakened concerning the identity of the authorship, and
the personal paragraphers made a thousand conjectures, all of which
helped the sale of the novel immensely and amused Miss. Juno and her
confidants beyond expression.

All this was known to Clitheroe before he had reached the climax that
forced him to the wall. He had written to Miss. Juno; and he had called
her "Jack" as of old, but he felt and she realized that he felt that the
conditions were changed. The atmosphere of the rose-garden was gone
forever; the hopes and aspirations that were so easy and so airy then,
had folded their wings like bruised butterflies or faded like the
flowers. She resolved to wait until he had recovered his senses and then
perhaps he would come to Venice and to them--which in her estimation
amounted to one and the same thing.

She wrote to him no more; he had not written her for weeks, save only
the few lines of congratulation on the success of her novel, and to
thank her for the author's copy she had sent him: the three-volume
London edition with a fond inscription on the flyleaf--a line in each
volume. This was the end of all that.

Once more she wrote, but not to Clitheroe; she wrote to a friend she had
known when she was in the far West, one who knew Paul well and was
always eager for news of hi