“Because ye are both gifted,” returned Mr. Bowers, with sad but unconquerable conviction; “because ye're both, so to speak, in a line o' idees and business that draws ye together,--to lean on each other and trust each other ez pardners. Not that YE are ezakly her ekal,” he went on, with a return to his previous exasperating naivete, “though I've heerd promisin' things of ye, and ye're still young, but in matters o' this kind there is allers one ez hez to be looked up to by the other,--and gin'rally the wrong one. She looks up to you, Mr. Editor,--it's part of her po'try,--ez she looks down inter the brush and sees more than is plain to you and me. Not,” he continued, with a courteously deprecating wave of the hand, “ez you hain't bin kind to her--mebbe TOO kind. For thar's the purty letter you writ her, thar's the perlite, easy, captivatin' way you had with her gals and that boy--hold on!”--as the editor made a gesture of despairing renunciation,--“I ain't sayin' you ain't right in keepin' it to yourself,--and thar's the extry money you sent her every time. Stop! she knows it was EXTRY, for she made a p'int o' gettin' me to find out the market price o' po'try in papers and magazines, and she reckons you've bin payin' her four hundred per cent. above them figgers--hold on! I ain't sayin' it ain't free and liberal in you, and I'd have done the same thing; yet SHE thinks”-- But the editor had risen hastily to his feet with flushing cheeks. “One moment, Mr. Bowers,” he said, hurriedly. “This is the most dreadful blunder of all. The gift is not mine. It was the spontaneous offering of another who really admired our friend's work,--a gentleman who”--He stopped suddenly. The sound of a familiar voice, lightly humming, was borne along the passage; the light tread of a familiar foot was approaching. The editor turned quickly towards the open door,--so quickly that Mr. Bowers was fain to turn also. For a charming instant the figure of Jack Hamlin, handsome, careless, and confident, was framed in the doorway. His dark eyes, with their habitual scorn of his average fellow-man, swept superciliously over Mr. Bowers, and rested for an instant with caressing familiarity on the editor. “Well, sonny, any news from the old girl at the Summit?” “No-o,” hastily stammered the editor, with a half-hysterical laugh. “No, Jack. Excuse me a moment.” “All right; busy, I see. Hasta manana.” The picture vanished, the frame was empty. “You see,” continued the editor, turning to Mr. Bowers, “there has been a mistake. I”--but he stopped suddenly at the ashen face of Mr. Bowers, still fixed in the direction of the vanished figure. “Are you ill?” Mr. Bowers did not reply, but slowly withdrew his eyes, and turned them heavily on the editor. Then, drawing a longer, deeper breath, he picked up his soft felt hat, and, moulding it into shape in his hands as if preparing to put it on, he moistened his dry, grayish lips, and said, gently:-- “Friend o' yours?”