Probably Morrison had not expected to be categorical, or to bring anything like a bill of particulars against Bartley, and this demand gave him pause. “What you mean,” he said, at last, “by always praising her up so?” “What I said. She's a very good girl, and a very bright one. You don't deny that?” “No--no matter what I deny. What--what you lend her all them books for?” “To improve her mind. You don't object to that? I thought you once thanked me for taking an interest in her.” “Don't you mind what I object to, and what I thank you for,” said Morrison, with dignity. “I know what I'm about.” “I begin to doubt. But get on. I'm in a great hurry this morning,” said Bartley. Morrison seemed to be making a mental examination of his stock of charges, while the strain of keeping his upright position began to tell upon him, and he swayed to and fro against the door. “What's that word you sent her by my boy, Sat'day night?” “That she was a smart girl, and would be sure to get on if she was good--or words to that effect. I trust there was no offence in that, Mr. Morrison?” Morrison surrendered, himself to another season of cogitation, in which he probably found his vagueness growing upon him. He ended by fumbling in all his pockets, and bringing up from the last a crumpled scrap of paper. “What you--what you say that?” Bartley took the extended scrap with an easy air. “Miss Morrison's handwriting, I think.” He held it up before him and read aloud, “'I love my love with an H because he is Handsome.' This appears to be a confidence of Miss Morrison to her Muse. Whom do you think she refers to, Mr. Morrison?” “What's--what's the first letter your name?” demanded Morrison, with an effort to collect his dispersing severity. “B,” promptly replied Bartley. “Perhaps this concerns you, Henry. Your name begins with an H.” He passed the paper up over his head to Bird, who took it silently. “You see,” he continued, addressing Bird, but looking at Morrison as he spoke, “Mr. Morrison wishes to convict me of an attempt upon Miss Hannah's affections. Have you anything else to urge, Mr. Morrison?” Morrison slid at last from his difficult position into a convenient chair, and struggled to keep himself from doubling forward. “I want know what you mean,” he said, with dogged iteration. “I'll show you what I mean,” said Bartley with an ugly quiet, while his mustache began to twitch. He sprang to his feet and seized Morrison by the collar, pulling him up out of the chair till he held him clear of the floor, and opened the door with his other hand. “Don't show your face here again,--you or your girl either!” Still holding the man by the collar, he pushed him before him through the office, and gave him a final thust out of the outer door. Bartley returned to his room in a white heat: “Miserable tipsy rascal!” he panted; “I wonder who has set him on to this thing.” Bird stood pale and silent, still, nolding the crumpled scrap of paper in his hand.