"Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might be from that charming young lady whom you assisted to cross Broadway last month; and of whom you speak so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of humor." And the girl looked at him quizzically with her impudent eyes. Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was enabled to read the note. "That is strange--read it, Daisy." Daisy read: "SIR,--By calling at my office, No. ---- Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4 P. M., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you. "Respectfully, "J. C. BURBANK, "_Attorney at Law._" About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint received a communication of similar import, after reading which, he said: "Hum!" and thrust the note into his vest-pocket. Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in store for you. The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill. He found that gentleman talking with three new geniuses in pantelets, who were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to "bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold. When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer. "Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story." Mortimer bowed. "Did you read it all, sir?" "I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but the size of the manuscript." "Then you buy by the _weight_," said Mortimer, smiling. "Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages. As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too heavy; but yours is not, my reader says." "Your reader, sir?" "Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I seldom read my publications. I merely sell them--sometimes I don't do _that_. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his judgment." "Ah!" "He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments." Mr. Hardwill might have added--"and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and 'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not. Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and "striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother.