“My first essay!” interrupted Harry indignantly. “I am not to be trifled with—no, sir—I will expose you at once—it is you who shall bear the ridicule, not me!” and Harry rushed to the door. “Stop—stop—my dear young friend,” cried Mr. Lillie, catching his arm—“listen a moment; for heaven’s sake don’t expose me, it will be my ruin. I will give you any thing you ask if you will only spare me—you shall have money—” “_Money!_ Can money repair the disgrace you have heaped upon me—talk of money to a man who feels his future hopes blasted!” exclaimed Harry scornfully. “Sir, there is but one way to save your reputation.” “And what is that dear sir?” eagerly demanded the author. “Give me the hand of your daughter,” he replied firmly. “My daughter, Mr. Warren—why you astonish me—my daughter!” and Mr. Lillie paused and pondered, bit his lips and rubbed his eyebrows. “Why bless my soul, Mr. Warren, May is but a child!” “No matter,” was the answer, “will you or will you not accept my proposition?” “Will not five hundred dollars, Mr. Warren—” “No—nor five hundred thousand dollars.” “Well, Mr. Warren, only don’t expose me; only pledge me your word of honor that my secret shall be inviolate and May is yours!” Harry calmed down wonderfully quick, considering he had been in such a passion, and very obligingly made all the pledges his father-in-law that was to be required. “But there is one thing, Mr. Warren, which I must leave to your generosity,” said Mr. Lillie. “May is my only, and a motherless child—if this arrangement should be repugnant to her feelings, I trust you will not press your claim—we may perhaps find some other way to adjust this little difficulty. I will call May down, we may as well know at once what her feelings are.” Harry coughed, and walked to the window to conceal a smile, feeling at the same time more respect for Mr. Lillie for this last clause in favor of his child, than he thought him capable of inspiring. One glance at the happy countenance of her lover informed May the day was theirs. And so she immediately took a great many airs upon herself—pouted her pretty lips, and protested she thought it really absurd the idea of marrying a man who had made himself so ridiculous—she doted on poets, that she was willing to allow—but not such a conceited fellow as wrote that poem—she knew! Harry meanwhile whistled “Rory O’More,” and walked the room with an air as much as to say—“It is perfectly indifferent to me, Miss, which ever way you decide.” “But, foolish child!” whispered her father, “the poem is _mine_!” “Yours, dear papa—oh that alters the case—then you wrote that stup—” “Hush—hush May. The public are fools, and cannot appreciate true genius—the poem is a good poem.” “I think it has point, papa.” “Yes, and if those stupid ignoramuses had not made such an outcry, they would have seen that it terminates most felicitously.” “True, papa—one certainly could not wish for a happier termination.”