by the hurried rustling of sheets
of copy and an occasional exasperated start from the editor. The sun
was already beginning to slant a dusty beam across his desk; Jack's
whistling had long since ceased. Presently, with an exclamation of
relief, the editor laid aside the last proof-sheet and looked up.

Jack Hamlin had closed the magazine, but with one hand thrown over the
back of the sofa he was still holding it, his slim forefinger between
its leaves to keep the place, and his handsome profile and dark
lashes lifted towards the window. The editor, smiling at this unwonted
abstraction, said quietly,--

"Well, what do you think of them?"

Jack rose, laid the magazine down, settled his white waistcoat with both
hands, and lounged towards his friend with audacious but slightly
veiled and shining eyes. "They sort of sing themselves to you," he said,
quietly, leaning beside the editor's desk, and looking down upon him.
After a pause he said, "Then you don't know what she's like?"

"That's what Mr. Bowers asked me," remarked the editor.

"D--n Bowers!"

"I suppose you also wish me to write and ask for permission to give you
her address?" said the editor, with great gravity.

"No," said Jack, coolly. "I propose to give it to YOU within a week, and
you will pay me with a breakfast. I should like to have it said that I
was once a paid contributor to literature. If I don't give it to you,
I'll stand you a dinner, that's all."

"Done!" said the editor. "And you know nothing of her now?"

"No," said Jack, promptly. "Nor you?"

"No more than I have told you."

"That'll do. So long!" And Jack, carefully adjusting his glossy hat over
his curls at an ominously wicked angle, sauntered lightly from the room.
The editor, glancing after his handsome figure and hearing him take
up his pretermitted whistle as he passed out, began to think that the
contingent dinner was by no means an inevitable prospect.

Howbeit, he plunged once more into his monotonous duties. But the
freshness of the day seemed to have departed with Jack, and the
later interruptions of foreman and publisher were of a more practical
character. It was not until the post arrived that the superscription on
one of the letters caught his eye, and revived his former interest.
It was the same hand as that of his unknown contributor's
manuscript--ill-formed and boyish. He opened the envelope. It contained
another poem with the same signature, but also a note--much