Harry started up and paced the room as if pursued by all the furies. “Ah, I thought I should surprise you,” cried Mr. Lillie. “Come, sit down again. I said I would make your fortune, and I will. Now this poem, Mr. Warren, you shall have the honor of delivering before the Lyceum as your own—think of that—as your own production.” Poor Harry was struck aghast. “But, my dear sir,” he exclaimed, “I can never consent to such a gross imposition!” “I honor you the more for your delicacy young man,” replied the poet; “but banish it—there is no need of it between friends, we perfectly understand each other you know—you shall deliver this poem.” (“The Lord deliver me!” mentally prayed Harry.) “Listeners will applaud—copies will be solicited—your fame will reach the city—Morris and Willis will rank you among their favorite young poets—the——” “But, Mr. Lillie, why not deliver this poem yourself—why not wear your own laurels?” interrupted Harry. “_Ahem_—Mr. Warren, I am averse to popularity—notoriety of any kind I detest—I prefer to quaff stealthily at the fount of Helicon, and tread with felted footsteps the Parnassian hill—stop, that’s a new idea, I’ll note it. So long as I have the mental satisfaction of knowing the _poem is mine_, what matters it whether you or I have the reputation! Say no more—you accept my proposition of course.” “Mr. Lillie—” “Not a word, my dear sir—I will take care that you are invited to deliver the next Lyceum lecture—two weeks hence remember. That gives you ample time to study the poem and conceive my meaning. Come here every evening—you shall have my assistance. I will not detain you longer—good-night. You will find May somewhere—in the drawing-room most probably; she will be glad to see you, for I dare say she is puzzling her little head about something which you can explain. Good-night.” This latter clause sufficed to check all further opposition from Harry, for the moment at least, and with rapid steps he now sought the drawing-room. “Dear Harry!” cried May, springing toward him as he entered, and looking up in his face as if to read there the stern mandate which was to separate them forever. “Dearest May, do not tremble thus,” replied Harry, leading her to a seat; “believe me you have no cause.” “Ah—does he then approve of our love!” exclaimed May, her sweet young face illumined with hope. “Your father has been kind, my dear girl, and that he does not even suspect our love I am convinced, or he would have been less so. His kindness, however, if it may be called so,” (and the lip of Harry curled doubtingly,) “has placed me in a most awkward predicament. Listen, dear May, and help me if you can.” He then as briefly as possible related the conversation he had just held with her father, and the strange proposition made him. No wonder he felt provoked at the merry laugh with which the little maiden closed his rueful communication.