“I wish I could!” and Randal meant what he said, for he was as tired of his own style, as a watch-maker might be of the magnifying glass through which he strains his eyes all day. He knew that the heart was left out of his work, and that both mind and soul were growing morbid with dwelling on the faulty, absurd and metaphysical phases of life and character. He often threw down his pen and vowed he would write no more; but he loved ease and the books brought money readily; he was accustomed to the stimulant of praise and missed it as the toper misses his wine, so that which had once been a pleasure to himself and others was fast becoming a burden and a disappointment. The brief pause which followed his involuntary betrayal of discontent was broken by Ruth, who exclaimed, with a girlish enthusiasm that overpowered girlish bashfulness,— “_I_ think all the novels are splendid! I hope you will write hundreds more, and I shall live to read ’em.” “Bravo, my gentle champion! I promise that I will write one more at least, and have a heroine in it whom your mother will both admire and love,” answered Randal, surprised to find how grateful he was for the girl’s approval, and how rapidly his trained fancy began to paint the background on which he hoped to copy this fresh, human daisy. Abashed by her involuntary outburst, Ruth tried to efface herself behind Saul’s broad shoulder, and he brought the conversation back to its starting-point by saying in a tone of the most sincere interest,— “Speaking of the serial, I am very anxious to know how your hero comes out. He is a fine fellow, and I can’t decide whether he is going to spoil his life marrying that silly woman, or do something grand and generous, and not be made a fool of.” “Upon my soul, I don’t know myself. It is very hard to find new finales. Can’t you suggest something, Major? then I shall not be obliged to leave my story without an end, as people complain I am rather fond of doing.” “Well, no, I don’t think I’ve anything to offer. Seems to me it isn’t the sensational exploits that show the hero best, but some great sacrifice quietly made by a common sort of man who is noble without knowing it. I saw a good many such during the war, and often wish I could write them down, for it is surprising how much courage, goodness and real piety is stowed away in common folks ready to show when the right time comes.” “Tell us one of them, and I’ll bless you for a hint. No one knows the anguish of an author’s spirit when he can’t ring down the curtain on an effective tableau,” said Randal, with a glance at his friends to ask their aid in eliciting an anecdote or reminiscence. “Tell about the splendid fellow who held the bridge, like Horatius, till help came up. That was a thrilling story, I assure you,” answered Sophie, with an inviting smile. But Saul would not be his own hero, and said briefly: