In fact, Harley was in that unfortunate, and at the same time happy, position where he had many orders for the product of his pen, and such financial necessities that he could not afford to decline one of them. And it was this very situation which made his rebellious heroine of whom I have essayed to write so sore a trial to the struggling young author. It was early in May, 1895, that Harley had received a note from Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick, the publishers, asking for a story from his pen for their popular “Blue and Silver Series.” “The success of your _Tiffin-Talk_,” they wrote, “has been such that we are prepared to offer you our highest terms for a short story of 30,000 words, or thereabouts, to be published in our ‘Blue and Silver Series.’ We should like to have it a love-story, if possible; but whatever it is, it must be characteristic, and ready for publication in November. We shall need to have the manuscript by September 1st at the latest. If you can let us have the first few chapters in August, we can send them at once to Mr. Chromely, whom it is our intention to have illustrate the story, provided he can be got to do it.” The letter closed with a few formalities of an unimportant and stereotyped nature, and Harley immediately called at the office of Messrs. Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick, where, after learning that their best terms were no more unsatisfactory than publishers’ best terms generally are, he accepted the commission. And then, returning to his apartment, he went into what Kelly called one of his trances. “He goes into one of his trances,” Kelly had said, “hoists himself up to his little elevation, and peeps into the private life of _hoi polloi_ until he strikes something worth putting down and the result he calls literature.” “Yes, and the people buy it, and read it, and call for more,” said the Professor. “Possibly because they love notoriety,” said Kelly, “and they think if they call for more often enough, he will finally peep in at their key-holes and write them up. If he ever puts me into one of his books I’ll waylay him at night and amputate his writing-hand.” “He won’t,” said the Professor. “I asked him once why he didn’t, and he said you’d never do in one of his books, because you don’t belong to real life at all. He thinks you are some new experiment of an enterprising Providence, and he doesn’t want to use you until he sees how you turn out.” “He could put me down as I go,” suggested the Doctor. “That’s so,” replied the other. “I told him so, but he said he had no desire to write a lot of burlesque sketches containing no coherent idea.” “Oh, he said that, did he?” observed the Doctor, with a smile. “Well—wait till Stuart Harley comes to me for a prescription. I’ll get even with him. I’ll give him a pill, and he’ll disappear—for ten days.”