Here a young lady, over whom Beau Larch was leaning, confided to her escort in an audible, nervous voice that she knew Beau Larch had been drinking, but she wouldn’t say why she knew--anybody could see he had; and then she sniffed with her nose by way of indicating that seeing was not the only or best method of telling. “You don’t mean to say--” said Margaret to Aladdin, and looked him in the eyes. “Why, Aladdin!” she said. And then: “Peter--Peter--‘Laddin wrote it, he did. Isn’t it gr-reat!” And Peter, rising to the occasion, said, “Bully,” and “I thought it was great,” with such absolute frankness and sincerity that Aladdin’s heart almost warmed toward him. It was presently known all over the house that Aladdin had written the song. And some of the more clownish of the young people called for Author, Author. Aladdin hung his head. At supper at the St. Johns’ later was a crisp, brisk gentleman with grayish hair, who talked in a pleasant, dry way. Aladdin learned that it was Mr. Blankinship, editor and proprietor of the Portland “Spy.” Almost immediately on learning this important item, he saw Mr. Blankinship exchange a word with Margaret and come toward him. “Mr. O’Brien?” “Yes, sir.” “The same that sent us three poems a while ago?” “Yes, sir.” “And you wrote that song we heard to-night?” “Yes, sir.” Aladdin was now fiery red. “What do you do for a living?” “I’ve just finished school,” said Aladdin. “And I don’t know what to do.” “Newspaper work appeal to you?” “Yes, sir.” “Timid as a coot,” thought Mr. Blankinship. “Write easily?” he said. “Fast--short words?” Aladdin thought a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said coolly. “Less timid than a coot,” thought Mr. Blankinship. “Willing to live in Portland?” “Yes, sir.” “I’ll give you five dollars a week and give you a trial.” “Thank you, sir.” “Can you get moved and start work Monday?” “Yes, sir.” Mr. Blankinship smiled cheerfully. “Pretty entertainment, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, O’Brien, see you Monday; hope we get on.” Mr. Blankinship nodded pleasantly and passed up the room to the punch, muttering as he went, “Writes better than talks--dash of genius--more or less timid than a coot.” Aladdin went quickly to find Margaret. He traced her to the pantry, where she was hurrying the servant who had charge of the ice-cream. Aladdin waited until the servant had gone out with a heaping tray. “Margaret,” he said, “I’m going away to live.” He spoke in the flat, colorless voice with which a little child announces that it has hurt itself. “What do you mean, Aladdin?” She changed color slightly. “Only that I’ve got to make a living, Margaret, and it’s on a paper, so I ought to be glad.” “Aren’t you glad, Aladdin?” “A little.” “Aladdin--” “Margaret--O Margaret--” She read in his eyes what was coming. “Not now, Aladdin,” she said. “Not now--dear Aladdin.” “Then you know?” “I’ve always known, Aladdin, and been grateful and that proud.”