e, Herbert," said the host, with pleasant
familiarity. "Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home."

The cottage contained two rooms. One was used as a bedchamber, the other
as a sitting room. On the walls were a few pictures, and on a small
bookcase against one side of the room were some twenty-five books.
There was an easel and an unfinished picture in one corner, and a small
collection of ordinary furniture.

"You are probably an artist," suggested Melville.

"Yes, you have hit it. I use both pen and pencil," and he mentioned a
name known to Melville as that of a popular magazine writer.

I do not propose to give his real name, but we will know him as Robert
Falkland.

"I am familiar with your name, Mr. Falkland," said Melville, "but I did
not expect to find you here."

"Probably not," answered Falkland. "I left the haunts of civilization
unexpectedly, some months ago, and even my publishers don't know where I
am."

"In search of health?" queried Melville.

"Not exactly. I did, however, feel in need of a change. I had been
running in a rut, and wanted to get out of it, so I left my lodgings in
New York and bought a ticket to St. Louis; arrived there, I determined
to come farther. So here I have been, living in communion with nature,
seeing scarcely anybody, enjoying myself, on the whole, but sometimes
longing to see a new face."

"And you have built this cottage?"

"No; I bought it of its former occupant, but have done something
towards furnishing it; so that it has become characteristic of me and my
tastes."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Three months; but my stay is drawing to a close."

"How is that?"

"Business that will not be put off calls me back to New York. In fact, I
had appointed to-morrow for my departure."

Melville and Herbert exchanged a glance. It was evident that the same
thought was in the mind of each.

"Mr. Falkland," said George Melville, "I have a proposal to make to
you."

The artist eyed him in some surprise.

"Go on," he said.

"I will buy this cottage of you, if you are willing."

Falkland smiled.

"This seems providential," he said. "We artists and men of letters
are apt to be short of money, and I confess I was pondering whether my
credit was good with anybody for a hundred dollars to pay my expenses
East. Once arrived there, there are plenty of publishers who will make
me advances on future work."

"Then we can probably make a bargain," said Mr.