g yer pardon, children are. I did
hand it to the oldest of 'em, certainly, but I took the precaution, Miss
Bibby, ma'am, to stay at the door till I seen her hand it to you. You
was standin' by the fire and I seen it _acshally in yer hand_."

"But that was no letter," said Miss Bibby, a faint recollection stealing
over her, "it was one of your trade cards."

"It was on one of those I wrote," said Hugh, "having no other paper. I
remember apologizing for using it."

"And I burnt it!" said Miss Bibby in a stricken tone. "Tossed it on the
fire without a glance--I thought they were playing me a trick! Poor
Pauline--I--must apologize to Pauline."

"You can go," said Hugh to Larkin, "and here's a shilling to wipe the
momentary slur off from your character."

And Larkin rode off, vindicated, slapping the left-hand pocket of his
trousers.

"Does it make my crime a little less brutal?" said Hugh gently.

She put out her slim white hand again.

"Let us forget about it," she said; "I shall soon live it down." Her
eyes flashed for a moment bravely up to his.

He gripped her hand hard, shook it several times, and told her she had
behaved in a manner altogether more generous than he deserved.

"If you want to make me a little more comfortable in my own mind," he
said as he was leaving, "you will give me something to do for you. Can
I--my sister tells me you write a great deal and--and have not had any
very great fortune with the editors and publishers yet. Is there any MS
I could read--and perhaps presume to offer a little advice upon? It
would make me very happy--that is, if you have sufficient confidence in
me."

The humble, anxious note in his voice would have amazed several score of
his readers who had written to him to ask him, since he was a literary
man, to read through an accompanying bulky parcel of MS, advise about
its faults and give hints about publishing. For these persons--anathema
maranatha to all authors--received by return of post one of a large
packet of printed slips that stood ever ready on Hugh's desk, and
learned briefly that "Mr. Hugh Kinross, being neither a literary agent
nor a philanthropist but merely a working man with a market value on
every hour, begs to repudiate the honour his correspondent would do him,
and informs him that his MS will be returned on receipt of stamps to
cover postage."

Miss Bibby was not proof against this offer. She gave Hugh one look of
intense gratitude and hurried i