As Bartley had foretold, he had not the least trouble in selling this sketch to the Chronicle-Abstract. The editor probably understood its essential cheapness perfectly well; but he also saw how thoroughly readable it was. He did not grumble at the increased price which Bartley put upon his work; it was still very far from dear; and he liked the young Downeaster's enterprise. He gave him as cordial a welcome as an overworked man may venture to offer when Bartley came in with his copy, and he felt like doing him a pleasure. Some things out of the logging-camp sketch had been copied, and people had spoken to the editor about it, which was a still better sign that it was a hit. “Don't you want to come round to our club to-night?” asked the editor, as he handed Bartley the order for his money across the table. “We have a bad dinner, and we try to have a good time. We're all newspaper men together.” “Why, thank you,” said Bartley, “I guess I should like to go.” “Well, come round at half-past five, and go with me.” Bartley walked homeward rather soberly. He had meant, if he sold this article, to make amends for the disappointment they had both suffered before, and to have a commemorative supper with Marcia at Parker's: he had ignored a little hint of hers about his never having taken her there yet, because he was waiting for this chance to do it in style. He resolved that, if she did not seem to like his going to the club, he would go back and withdraw his acceptance. But when he told her he had been invited,--he thought he would put the fact in this tentative way,--she said, “I hope you accepted!” “Would you have liked me to?” he asked with relief. “Why, of course! It's a great honor. You'll get acquainted with all those editors, and perhaps some of them will want to give you a regular place.” A salaried employment was their common ideal of a provision for their future. “Well, that's what I was thinking myself,” said Bartley. “Go and accept at once,” she pursued. “Oh, that isn't necessary. If I get round there by half-past five, I can go,” he answered. His lurking regret ceased when he came into the reception-room, where the members of the club were constantly arriving, and putting off their hats and overcoats, and then falling into groups for talk. His friend of the Chronicle-Abstract introduced him lavishly, as our American custom is. Bartley had a little strangeness, but no bashfulness, and, with his essentially slight opinion of people, he was promptly at his ease. These men liked his handsome face, his winning voice, the good-fellowship of his instant readiness to joke; he could see that they liked him, and that his friend Ricker was proud of the impression he made; before the evening was over he kept himself with difficulty from patronizing Ricker a little.