many ready to take advantage of this fact, and withhold from needy talent the moral right to a deserved remuneration. Thank heaven, I have never practiced this. The 'Household Messenger' does not yield me a very large income, but what it does yield is fairly earned. Why, bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Walter, suddenly starting up, and as suddenly sitting down again; "why has not this idea occurred to me before? yes, why not engage 'Floy' to write for the Household Messenger? How I wish I were rich, that I might give her such a price as she really deserves. Let me see; she now writes for The Standard, and The Pilgrim, four pieces a week for each; eight pieces in all; that is too much work for her to begin with; she cannot do herself justice; she ought not to write, at the outside, more than two pieces a week; then she could polish them up, and strengthen them, and render them as nearly perfect in execution as they are in conception. One piece a week would be as much as I should wish; could I possibly afford to pay her as much, or more for that one piece, as she now gets for eight? Her name is a tower of strength, but its influence would be frittered away, were she to write for more than one paper. If I could secure her pen all to myself, the advertising that such a connection would give The Messenger would be worth something. Ah me, were my purse only commensurate with my feelings. If I only knew who 'Floy' is, and could have an interview with her, I might perhaps arrange matters so as to benefit us both; and I _will_ know," exclaimed Mr. Walter, jumping up and pacing the room rapidly; "I'll know before I'm a month older;" and the matter was settled; for when John Walter paced the floor rapidly, and said "I will," Fate folded her hands. CHAPTER LXVIII. "A letter for 'Floy!'" said Mr. Lescom, smiling. "Another lover, I suppose. Ah! when you get to be my age," continued the old man, stroking his silver hair, "you will treat their communications with more attention." As he finished his remark, he held the letter up playfully for a moment, and then tossed it into Ruth's lap. Ruth thrust it unread into her apron pocket. She was thinking of her book, and many other things of far more interest to her than lovers, if lover the writer were. After correcting the proof of her articles for the next week's paper, and looking over a few exchanges, she asked for and received the wages due her for the last articles published, and went home. Ruth was wearied out; her walk home tired her more than usual. Climbing to her room, she sat down without removing her bonnet, and leaning her head upon her hand, tried to look hopefully into the future. She was soon disturbed by Nettie, who exploring her mother's pockets, and finding the letter, exclaimed, pointing to the three cent stamp, "May I have this pretty picture, mamma?"