Adrian started. He had not bargained for this; but Peter had overheard, and interposed: "I am more than consoled by your approval, Miss Chatterton." Mr. Pottles called to Adrian, and he had to go in, leaving Dora and Peter in close conversation, and to assure his uncle solemnly that he had been entirely disappointed and deceived in Peter, and, worse still, in Dora, and that he never wished to see either of them again. Mr. Pottles shook him by the hand and forgave him. Adrian passed a wretched week. In several newspapers he saw it openly stated that Peter now admitted he was the author of "To Lalage." Peter wrote that the fifty pounds were most convenient, and that he had had a most charming letter from Dora, and that all the literary world was paying him most flattering attentions. Adrian ground his teeth, but he had to write back, thanking Peter for all his kindness. Meanwhile Mr. Pottles grew restless. Every paper he took up was full of the praises of "To Lalage." The author was becoming famous, and Mr. Pottles began to doubt whether he had done well to drive him forth with contumely. "Adrian," he said suddenly one morning, "I don't know that I did justice to young Allison. I shall have another look at that book. I shall order it at Smith's." "I--I happen to have a copy," said Adrian timidly. "Get it," said Mr. Pottles. Mr. Pottles read it--first with a deep frown, then with a judicial air, then with a smile, lastly with a chuckle. "Ask him to dinner," he said. "Oh, and, Adrian, we'll have the Chattertons. I wish you could do something to get your name up, my boy." "You like it, uncle?" "Yes, and I like the manly way he owned to it. If he had prevaricated about it, I'd never have forgiven him." After this Adrian did not dare to confess. It was too bad. Here were both his uncle and Dora admiring Peter for his poems, and crediting Peter with candor and courage. He was to lose both fame and Dora! It was certainly too much. A sudden thought struck him. He went to town, called on Peter, and, as the police reports say, "made a communication" to him. "It makes me look a scoundrel," objected Peter. "Two hundred--at six months," suggested Adrian. "And she is a nice girl---- No, I'm dashed----" "A monkey at three!" cried Adrian. "Done!" said Peter. It was a sad tale of depravity on one side, and of self-sacrificing friendship on the other, that Mr. Pottles and Dora Chatterton listened to that evening. "He had made," said Adrian sadly, "a deliberate attempt to rob me of my fame before, and he repeated it. And yet, uncle, an old friend--boyhood's companion--how could I betray him? It was weak, but I could not. I stood by, and let him deceive you." "You're a noble fellow," said Mr. Pottles, in tones of emotion. "Indeed, yes," said Dora, with an adoring glance. "There, let us say no more about it," pursued Adrian magnanimously. "I have my reward," and he returned Dora's glance behind Mr. Pottles' broad back.