Leopold was almost hidden behind piles of manuscripts and newspapers when Quincy entered his room. “Up to your neck, Leopold?” As soon as Leopold saw who had addressed him, he jumped up, pushed a pile of manuscripts from his desk to the floor, and grasped Quincy's extended hand in both of his. “Let me help you pick up your papers,” said Quincy. “No, they're in their proper places. They're rejected. I have accepted two out of fifty or more. The American author sends tons to the literary mill, but it grinds out but a few pounds. But the novices are improving. They will yet lead the world, for we have a new country full of God's wonderful works, and a composite population whose loves and hates reproduce in new scenes all the passions of the Old World. They are the same pictures of human goodness and frailty in new frames--and my business is to judge the workmanship of the frames.” They talked about old times, particularly the success of Alice's first romance. “Marriage is often fatal to literary activity. Is your wife to write another book?” “I think not. We expect an addition--not edition--to our family library soon after our return from England.” “That settles it. Literature takes a back seat when Maternity becomes its competitor. It is well. Otherwise, how could we keep up our supply of authors?” The evening before the sailing of the _Altonia_, a happy party assembled in a private dining room at Quincy's hotel. Toasts were drunk. Alice and Rosa sang and Florence accompanied and played classic selections upon the piano. “Bon voyage,” cried Leopold, as they separated. “Make notes of something really new, make a book of up-to-date travels, and our house will publish it for you, for I'll recommend it no matter how bad it is. We have to do that often for friends of the firm,--why not for our own?” A foggy night on the ocean. The barometer ranged low. An upward glance disclosed a black mist--no sign of moon or stars. A bad night on land, when trains of cars crash into others laden with humanity--some dying mercifully without knowing the cause; others cruelly, by slow cremation, with willing hands nearby powerless to help. A bad night off shore, when freight-laden craft, deceived by beacon lights, are beached upon the treacherous sand or dashed against jagged rocks. The life-savers, with rocket, and gun and line, and breeches-buoys, try in vain, and, as a last resort, grasp the oars of the life-boat and bring to safety one or two of a crew of ten. Sad hearts in homes when the news comes; but it is only one of the scenes in the drama of life. A bad night at sea--with a great ocean liner, its iron heart pulsating, plunging through the black waves into dense mountains of fog. Despite the darkness and chill of the winter night, Quincy, Alice, and Florence were on the deck of the _Altonia_. Alice shuddered and Quincy drew her wrap more closely about her. “Shall we go down into the cabin?”