At the hour appointed, with an unsteady hand, Harry knocked at the door of Mr. Lillie’s library. The great Diogenes himself appeared at the threshhold—and imagine the surprise of our hero to be greeted with: “Come in, come in, my dear sir—I am most happy to see you,” (shaking him warmly by the hand.) “Sit down, Mr. Warren,” (motioning to a seat at the table of the gods.) “It has long been my wish to know you better than my very limited time would allow—my pursuits” (glancing complacently around him,) “are a great bar to social intercourse. The muses, Mr. Warren, the muses I find are very jealous ladies—do you cultivate their acquaintance? No? Ah, I am surprised, for I assure you I have formed a very high opinion of your talents.” Harry bowed, and said something about honor, &c., &c. “My daughter, Mr. Warren,” (ah! now it is coming! thought poor Harry,) “my daughter, I am inclined to believe, has made great proficiency under your instruction—you have my thanks for initiating her into some of the more abstruse sciences which she never before attended to.” Did Harry dream, or was the wrath of Mr. Lillie veiled under the most cutting irony! He could only bow, and smile “a ghastly smile.” “And speaking of the Muses, my dear young sir,” continued Mr. Lillie, “I have just been amusing myself with a trifle—a mere flight of fancy—if you have a few moments leisure now, I will read you a few passages.” Of course our hero considered himself favored—and accordingly with true bombastic style Mr. Lillie read several stanzas from the closely written pages of his poem. Never had Harry listened to such trash—he could hardly credit his senses that any man should be so inflated with vanity as to deem it even passable! “Ah, it strikes you I see,” said Mr. Lillie. “I knew it would. Yes, I see it hits your vein exactly—this convinces me that our tastes are congenial.” Again Harry bowed—not daring to trust his voice, he was forced to nod his head continually like a Chinese mandarin in a toy-shop. “Mr. Warren,” proceeded the author, wheeling his chair round and regarding our hero with great benignity, “I have imbibed a great regard for you, and mean to make your fortune—to smooth your path to eminence. Yes, I like you, and am convinced there is no one more worthy than yourself to receive——” Harry started—his face radiant with hope, he bent eagerly forward to catch the rest of the sentence. “But, by the way, my young friend, this conversation must be strictly confidential.” “Certainly, my dear sir!” exclaimed Harry, almost breathless. “Yes, Mr. Warren, there is something about you which pleases me, and therefore I am about to confer upon you a most precious gift—to bestow upon you my—ah, can’t you guess what it is?” smiling archly. “O, my dear sir,” said Harry, seizing his hand, “if I might dare to hope!” “Yes, Mr. Warren, I am about to give you my—poem!” “Your poem!” “My poem.” “Your poem!” “Yes, my poem—that is, the reputation of the thing.”