This simple, and surely natural, inquiry had a singular, devastating effect upon her hearers. They looked upon each other with fallen jaws and complete stupefaction. The old man began to grow pale, and Parker glared about him with a wild eye. Fortunately, the editor was too busy at her work to notice their agitation; she applied herself to making alterations here and there, sometimes frowningly crossing out whole lines and even paragraphs, sometimes smiling and beaming at the writing; and, as she bent earnestly over the paper, against the darkness of the rainy day, the glamour about her fair hair was like a light in the room. To the minds of her two companions, this lustre was a gentle but unbearable accusation; and each dreaded the moment when her Work should be finished, with a great dread. There was a small “store-room” adjoining the office, and presently Mr. Parker, sweating at the brow, walked in there. The old man gave him a look of despairing reproach, but in a moment the foreman's voice was heard: “Oh, Mr. Fisbee, can you step here a second?” “Yes, indeed!” was Fisbee's reply; and he fled guiltily into the “store-room,” and Parker closed the door. They stood knee-deep in the clutter and lumber, facing each other abjectly. “Well, we're both done, anyway, Mr. Fisbee,” remarked the foreman. “Indubitably, Mr. Parker,” the old man answered; “it is too true.” “Never to think a blame thing about dinner for her!” Parker continued, remorsefully. “And her a lady that can turn off copy like a rotary snowplough in a Dakota blizzard! Did you see the sheets she's piled up on that desk?” “There is no cafe--nothing--in Plattville, that could prepare food worthy of her,” groaned Fisbee. “Nothing!” “And we never thought of it. Never made a single arrangement. Never struck us she didn't live on keeping us dry and being good, I guess.” “How can I go there and tell her that?” “Lord!” “She cannot go to the hotel----” “Well, I guess not! It ain't fit for her. Lum's table is hard enough on a strong man. Landis doesn't know a good cake from a Fiji missionary pudding. I don't expect pie is much her style, and, besides, the Palace Hotel pies--well!--the boss was a mighty uncomplaining man, but I used to notice his articles on field drainage got kind of sour and low-spirited when they'd been having more than the regular allowance of pie for dinner. She can't go there anyway; it's no use; it's after two o'clock, and the dining-room shuts off at one. I wonder what kind of cake she likes best.” “I don't know,” said the perplexed Fisbee. “If we ask her--” “If we could sort of get it out of her diplomatically, we could telegraph to Rouen for a good one.” “Ha!” said the other, brightening up. “You try it, Mr. Parker. I fear I have not much skill in diplomacy, but if you----” The compositor's mouth drooped at the corners, and he interrupted gloomily: “But it wouldn't get here till to-morrow.” “True; it would not.”