ll of his letters to the _Abstract_, and told him they were
considered by far the best letters of the kind published anywhere, which
meant anywhere in Boston.

"You do that sort of thing so well, newspaper writing," he continued,
with a slyness that was not lost upon Louise, though Maxwell was
ignorant of his drift, "that I wonder you don't sometimes want to take
it up again."

"It's well enough," said Maxwell, who was gratified by his praise.

"By the way," said Hilary, "I met your friend, Mr. Ricker, the other
day, and he spoke most cordially about you. I fancy he would be very
glad to have you back."

"In the old way? I would rather be excused."

"No, from what he said, I thought he would like your writing in the
editorial page."

Maxwell looked pleased. "Ricker's always been very good, but he has very
little influence on the _Abstract_. He has no money interest in the
paper."

Hilary said, with the greatest artfulness, "I wonder he doesn't buy in.
I hear it can be done."

"Not by Ricker, for the best of all possible reasons," said Maxwell,
with a laugh.

Louise could hardly wait till she had parted from her father and mother
before she began on her husband: "You goose! Didn't you see that papa
was hinting at buying _you_ a share in the _Abstract_?"

"He was very modest about it, then; I didn't see anything of the kind."

"Oh, do you think _you_ are the only modest man? Papa is _very_ modest,
and he wouldn't make you an offer outright, unless he saw that you would
like it. But I know that was what he was coming to, and if you'll let
me--"

A sentiment of a reluctance rather than a refusal was what made itself
perceptible from his arm to hers, as they hurried along the street
together, and Louise would not press the question till he spoke again.

He did not speak till they were in the train on their way home. Then he
said, "I shouldn't care to have a money interest in a newspaper. It
would tie me up to it, and load me down with cares I should hate. It
wouldn't be my real life."

"Yes," said his wife, but when they got into their little apartment she
cast an eye, opened to its meanness and narrowness, over the common
belongings, and wondered if he would ask himself whether this was her
real life. But she did not speak, though she was apt to speak out most
things that she thought.

XVIII.

Some people began to call, old friends of her mother, whose visit to New
York seemed to have betrayed