“He should have been sure before providing for the ceremony, after hearing what I had promised you I would and would not do,” said Marguerite. “But—I never told him anything about your promise!” I shouted, desperately. “He has done all this unwittingly.” “Is that true? Didn’t you tell him?” she cried, eagerly grasping my hand. Her manner left no doubt in my mind as to who the hero of her choice would be—and again I sighed to think that it was not I. “As true as that I stand here,” I said. “I never told him.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, well, you know what I mean!” I said, excitedly. “Wherever I do stand, it’s as true as that I stand there.” The phrase was awkward, but it fulfilled its purpose. “Why didn’t you tell him?” she asked. “Because I didn’t think it necessary. Fact is,” I added, “I had a sort of notion that if you married anybody in one of Harley’s books, if Harley had his own way it would be to the man who—who tells the sto—” A loud noise interrupted my remark and I started up in alarm, and in an instant I found myself back in my rooms in town once more. The little mountain house near Lake George, with its interesting and beautiful guest, had faded from sight, and I realized that somebody was hammering with a stick upon my door. “Hello there!” I cried. “What’s wanted?” “It’s I—Harley,” came Stuart’s voice. “Let me in.” I unlocked the door and he entered. The brown of Barnegat had gone, and he was his broken self again. “Well,” I said, trying to ignore his appearance, which really shocked me, “how’s the book? Got it done?” He sank into a chair with a groan. “Hang the book!—it’s all up with that; I’m going to Chadwick to-morrow and call the thing off,” he said. “She won’t work—two weeks’ steady application gone for nothing.” “Oh, come!” I said; “not as bad as that.” “Precisely as bad as that,” he retorted. “What can a fellow do if his heroine disappears as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed her up?” “Gone?” I cried, with difficulty repressing my desire to laugh. “Completely—searched high and low for her—no earthly use,” he answered. “I can’t even imagine where she is.” “All of which, my dear Stuart,” I said, adopting a superior tone for the moment, “shows that an imagination that is worth something wouldn’t be a bad possession for a realist, after all. I know where your heroine is. She is at a little mountain house near Lake George, and she has fled there to escape your booby of a hero, whom you should have known better than to force upon a girl like Marguerite Andrews. You’re getting inartistic, my dear boy. Sacrifice something to the American girl, but don’t sacrifice your art. Just because the aforesaid girl likes her stories to end up with a wedding is no reason why you should try to condemn your heroine to life-long misery.” Stuart looked at me with a puzzled expression for a full minute. “How the deuce do you know anything about it?” he asked.