One winter evening she sat alone by the dining-room fire, with a newspaper in her hand, reading a notice of the last number of the magazine, in which one of her sketches was roughly handled. Of course she was no better pleased with the unflattering criticism than the majority of writers in such cases. She frowned, bit her lip, and wondered who could have written it. The review was communicated, and the paper had been sent to her by some unknown hand. Once more she read the article, and her brow cleared, while a smile broke over her face. She had recognized a particular dictum, and was no longer puzzled. Leaning her head on her palm, she sat looking into the fire, ruminating on the objections urged against her piece; it was the first time she had ever been unfavorably criticised, and this was sufficient food for thought. Mr. Lindsay came in and stood near her unobserved. They had not met for several weeks, and she was not aware that he was in the city. Charon, who lay on the rug at her feet, growled, and she looked round. "Good-evening," said her visitor, extending his hand. She did not accept it; but merely inclined her head, saying: "Ah, how do you do, sir?" He laid a package on the table, drew a chair near the hearth without looking at her, and, calling to Charon, patted his huge head kindly. "What have you there, Miss Beulah? Merely a newspaper; it seems to interest you intensely. May I see it?" "I am certainly very much obliged to you, sir, for the chivalrous spirit in which you indited your criticism. I was just pondering it when you entered." She smiled as she spoke, and shook the paper at him. "I thought I had feigned a style you would not recognize," he answered quite unconcernedly. "You succeeded admirably, with the exception of one pet phrase, which betrayed you. Next time, recollect that you are very partial to some particular expressions, with which I happen to be acquainted; and avoid their introduction." "I rather think I shall not repeat the experiment; especially as my arguments seem to have failed signally in their design. Are you quite sure that you understand my review perfectly?" He looked a little curious--she fancied disappointed--and she replied laughingly: "Oh, I think I do; it is not so very abstruse." He leaned forward, took the paper from her, before she was aware of his intention, and threw it into the fire. She looked surprised, and he offered his hand once more. "Are we still friends? Will you shake hands with your reviewer?" She unhesitatingly put her hand in his, and answered: "Friendship is not a gossamer thread, to be severed by a stroke of the pen." She endeavored to withdraw her fingers, but he held them firmly, while his blue eyes rested upon her with an expression she by no means liked. Her black brows met in a heavy frown, and her lips parted angrily. He saw it, and instantly released her hand.