On New Year’s Day her husband proposed to read aloud to her a book “some of the Club fellows were talking about last night.” The pale face flushed nervously when he undid the wrapping paper. It was one of the “happenings” we persist in classing among singular coincidences, although they are of daily occurrence, that he should have selected that particular novel for their entertainment on the holiday he proposed to devote entirely to his convalescent wife. “The Story of Walter King” had not been sent, as one might suppose would have been natural, to Mr. Rowland of Boston. “He would guess instantly how matters are,” Agnes reasoned. “I am still too proud to run that risk.” She took the MS. instead to a New York publisher in whose discretion she could trust, told him of her whim to establish a new reputation which should owe nothing to past gains, and left the story with him. In a week it was accepted and in the printer’s hands. When Baby Agnes—upon whom the mother bestowed the Scotch pet-name of “Nest”—was born, new editions were selling as fast as the press could turn them out. It was evident, said critics, that the fresh, nervous novel was from the hand of a young writer, skilled in the use of language but unhackneyed by the need of furnishing “pot-boilers.” It was as evident, said readers, that the unknown author had fed the pen directly from his heart, and that personal experience had had much to do with the make-up of the “live book.” Agnes had held no communication with the discreet publisher since the contract was signed. She had not corrected the proof-sheets, or had an advance copy of the work. There was, therefore, literal truth in her reply to Barton’s query—“Have you read it?” “I have not even seen the book that I recollect. Who is the author?” “John C. Hart”—turning to the title page. “What else has he done?” “The name sounds familiar. Or, perhaps it may be that I am thinking of Professor John S. Hart. You are very kind to think of getting a new book for me! trebly kind to offer to read it to me.” “It is little enough I can do for the best wife in Christendom!” stooping to kiss her and then Baby Nest asleep in her crib beside Agnes’ reclining chair.