He looked steadily into the glowing coals, as though castles were building there. Once or twice his lips moved soundlessly; and suddenly he reached over to the escritoire near by, and taking an oval case from it, opened it, and gazed long and earnestly at the picture in it. The face was the average one of a young girl, with stiff plaits of hair stiffly tossed over the shoulder, in futile chase after grace; but the wide blue eyes were a glory of purity and trust, and they were the eyes of Blanche Allmand. Then he rose abruptly, walked to the sideboard, and filled a glass with water. Then he placed carefully in it the cactus flower and camelia bud, which had never left his hand since he plucked them in the conservatory. As he did so, Morris' face grew serious, and looked down wistfully into the fire. When he raised his eyes they were full of hopeful light, and they rested long and steadily upon the flowers. "Yes! It _is_ better!" he exclaimed aloud, as though continuing a train of thought. "Some of _that_ family bloom only once in a century. I cannot look for miracles, and many a hand may reach for _my_ flower. Yes, to-morrow shall settle it! The Italian was even more philosopher than poet when he said, '_Amare e no essere amato e tiempo perduto_'!" VI. When Mr. Andrew Browne tumbled into the cosy parlor of that bachelor's box at 4 A.M. on Christmas morning, he was by all odds the happiest man of his acquaintance, even if he knew himself, which was more than doubtful. He slammed the door, slung his fur-lined overcoat across the sofa, turned up the gas until it whistled merrily, and poked the fire until it roared again. Then he hunted the boot-jack, and drew off one boot; changed his mind, and flung himself into the smoking-chair, and stretched booted and unbooted foot to the blaze. Thus posed, he trolled out, "_Il segreto per esser felice_," in a rich baritone; only interrupting his _tempo_ to spit out superfluous ends, bitten from his cigar, in the effort to phrase neatly and smoke at the same time. "Why the deuce don't you get to bed?" growled Van Morris from the next room. He was aroused from dreams of Blanche Allmand, music, diamond solitaires, and orange-blossoms, mixed into one sweet confusion. "Stop your row, can't you? and go to bed!" "You go to bed yo'sef!" responded the illogical Andy, rising, not too steadily, on his one boot, and throwing wide the folding-door. "Who wants to go to bed? _I_ sha'n't." "You're an idiot!" muttered Mr. Morris; and he turned his face to the wall. "Guess am an idiot," responded Andy, blandly. "But I ain't tight,--only happy! I'm the happiest idiot--_Il segreto per ess_--Say, Van! I'm so _devilish_ happy, ol' boy!"