“Oh, poor Bartley!” she cried in laughing triumph. “I don't believe any of them noticed it; and you kept twirling it round in your hands all the time to make them look.” “Yes, I did my level best,” said Bartley. They had a jolly time about that. Marcia was proud of her sacque; when she took it off and held it up by the loop in the neck, so as to realize its prettiness, she said she should make it last three winters at least; and she leaned over and gave Bartley a sweet kiss of gratitude and affection, and told him not to try to make up for it by extra work, but to help her scrimp for it. “I'd rather do the extra work,” he protested. In fact he already had the extra work done. It was something that he felt he had the right to sell outside of the Events, and he carried his manuscript to Ricker and offered it to him for his Sunday edition. Ricker read the title and ran his eye down the first slip, and then glanced quickly at Hubbard. “You don't mean it?” “Yes I do,” said Bartley. “Why not?” “I thought he was going to use the material himself some time.” Bartley laughed. “He use the material! Why, he can't write, any more than a hen; he can make tracks on paper, but nobody would print 'em, much less buy 'em. I know him, he's all right. It wouldn't hurt the material for his purpose, any way; and he'll be tickled to death when he sees it. If he ever does. Look here, Ricker!” added Bartley, with a touch of anger at the hesitation in his friend's face, “if you're going to spring any conscientious scruples on me, I prefer to offer my manuscript elsewhere. I give you the first chance at it; but it needn't go begging. Do you suppose I'd do this if I didn't understand the man, and know just how he'd take it?” “Why, of course, Hubbard! I beg your pardon. If you say it's all right, I am bound to be satisfied. What do you want for it?” “Fifty dollars.” “That's a good deal, isn't it?” “Yes, it is. But I can't afford to do a dishonorable thing for less money,” said Bartley, with a wink. The next Sunday, when Marcia came home from church, she went into the parlor a moment to speak to Bartley before she ran upstairs to the baby. He was writing, and she put her left hand on his back while with her right she held her sacque slung over her shoulder by the loop, and leaned forward with a wandering eye on the papers that strewed the table. In that attitude he felt her pause and grow absorbed, and then rigid; her light caress tightened into a grip. “Why, how base! How shameful! That man shall never enter my doors again! Why, it's stealing!” “What's the matter? What are you talking about?” Bartley looked up with a frown of preparation. “This!” cried Marcia, snatching up the Chronicle-Abstract, at which she had been looking. “Haven't you seen it? Here's Mr. Kinney's life all written out! And when he said that he was going to keep it and write it out himself. That thief has stolen it!”