It was now five-thirty o'clock in the rainy afternoon. The demands of hospitality had forced the postponement of Miss Grace a full hour, and the cutting altogether of the old lady who was studying French. Entering his retreat thus belatedly, Charles shot a look ahead at the writing-table, according to his habit. A letter lay on the table, wearing a distinctly business air; and when the young man was still several paces off, he saw that the envelope bore the name of "Willcox's Weekly." For the most part, Charles's communications from editors had come to him in long envelopes of an ominous, a rejectional, fatness. Now it was his hour to see other samples from the editorial envelope supply, square envelopes, gratifyingly thin. Breaking the square thin envelope of "Willcox's Weekly" with nervous hurry, Charles read:-- DEAR MR. GARROTT:-- We have pleasure in accepting your interesting sketch of Miss Wing, for early publication in the WEEKLY. Our "Persons in the Foreground" department is always in the market for entertaining material of this character. Check for $20 will follow in due course. We are, with thanks, Yours sincerely, WILLCOX'S WEEKLY. Having read these few lines once, the author, still standing, read them again, and yet again. Upon his lip was the faint smile it had worn when he looked at Mary at the luncheon--before she began telling him things for his good. He was fairly entitled to wear this smile; but now it seemed in danger of becoming fixed for life. He was selling write-ups of Mary like hot cakes; there was no other word for it. He had written and sent out three write-ups--an unprecedented number about a single person--and now he had sold two of them already. He had hoped to plant, say, one write-up among the weeklies--to get quick results--and now he had planted two in the weeklies. Moreover, the third write-up had been in the hands of a famous weekly for ten days now.