She found Bartley dragging the table, on which he had already laid out his writing-materials, into a good light, and she threw her arms round his neck, as if they had been a great while parted. “Come up to kiss me good luck?” he asked, finding her lips. “Yes, and to tell you how splendid you are, going right to work this way,” she answered fondly. “Oh, I don't believe in losing time; and I've got to strike while the iron's hot, if I'm going to write out that logging-camp business. I'll take it over to that Events man, and hit him with it, while it's fresh in his mind.” “Yes,” said Marcia. “Are you going to write that out?” “Why, I told you I was. Any objections?” He did not pay much attention to her, and he asked his question jokingly, as he went on making his preparations. “It's hard for me to realize that people can care for such things. I thought perhaps you'd begin with something else,” she suggested, hanging up her sack and hat in the closet. “No, that's the very thing to begin with,” he answered, carelessly. “What are you going to do? Want that book to read that I bought on the cars?” “No, I'm going down to sit with Mrs. Nash while you're writing.” “Well, that's a good idea.” “You can call me when you've done.” “Done!” cried Bartley. “I sha'n't be done till this time to-morrow. I'm going to make a lot about it.” “Oh!” said his wife. “Well, I suppose the more there is, the more you will get for it. Shall you put in about those people coming to see the camp?” “Yes, I think I can work that in so that old Witherby will like it. Something about a distinguished Boston newspaper proprietor and his refined and elegant ladies, as a sort of contrast to the rude life of the loggers.” “I thought you didn't admire them a great deal.” “Well, I didn't much. But I can work them up.” Marcia was quite ready to go; Bartley had seated himself at his table, but she still hovered about. “And are you--shall you put that Montreal woman in?” “Yes, get it all in. She'll work up first-rate.” Marcia was silent. Then, “I shouldn't think you'd put her in,” she said, “if she was so silly and disagreeable.” Bartley turned around, and saw the look on her face that he could not mistake. He rose and took her by the chin. “Look here, Marsh!” he said, “didn't you promise me you'd stop that?” “Yes,” she murmured, while the color flamed into her cheeks. “And will you?” “I _did_ try--” He looked sharply into her eyes. “Confound the Montreal woman! I won't put in a word about her. There!” He kissed Marcia, and held her in his arms and soothed her as if she had been a jealous child. “Oh, Bartley! Oh, Bartley!” she cried. “I love you so!” “I think it's a remark you made before,” he said, and, with a final kiss and laugh, he pushed her out of the door; and she ran down stairs to Mrs. Nash again. “Your husband ever write poetry, any?” inquired the landlady. “No,” returned Marcia; “he used to in college, but he says it don't pay.”