“Now to work,” continued the first speaker, as he stooped to examine some goods on the floor. “What have we here? A serial for the _Atlantic Monthly_? Well, we’ll soon fix that,” and in another moment he had injected a quantity of ginger into the story, ruining it completely. Then the work of destruction went on, while Messrs. Rime & Reeson watched the vandals with horror depicted on their faces. A pan of sweepings from the humorous department, designed for Harper’s “Editor’s Drawer” and the _Bazar_, was thrown away, and real funny jokes substituted for them. A page article for the Sunday supplement of a New York daily, entitled “Millionaires who have Gold Filling in their Teeth,” embellished with cuts of twenty different jaws, was thrown out, and an article on “Jerusalem the Golden,” ordered by the _Whited Sepulchre_, substituted. Messrs. Rime & Reeson could control themselves no longer. Stacked against the wall like a woodpile were the twelve instalments of a _Century_ serial by Amelia E. Barr, which had been sawed into the proper lengths that afternoon. Seizing one of these apiece, the three men made a sudden onslaught on the miscreants and beat them into insensibility. Then they bound them securely and delivered them over to the tormentors. As for honest William Sonnet, he was made foreman of the whole foundry; and his wife, who was a fashion-writer, and therefore never fit to be seen, received a present of two beautiful new tailor-made dresses, which fitted her so well that no one recognized her, and she opened a new line of credit at all the stores in the neighborhood. It was a happy family that sat down to the Easter dinner in William Sonnet’s modest home; and to make their joy complete, before the repast was ended an envelope arrived from William’s grateful employers containing an appointment for his bedridden mother-in-law as reader for a large publishing house. THE TWO BROTHERS; OR, PLUCKED FROM THE BURNING. “No, Herbert, I would advise you to tear up that card and put temptation away from you. If you yield now you will weaken your moral character, and you will have less strength to resist another time.” The speaker, a young man of grave, honest aspect, was standing with his hand laid in a kindly way on his younger brother’s shoulder. The latter, whose face was cast in a more delicate and a weaker mould, stood irresolutely twirling in his hand a card of invitation to an afternoon tea. “I don’t see what harm it will do just for this one time,” he said, pettishly. “You’re always preaching about temptation, John; but, for my part, I think it’s my duty as a writer to see a little of every side of life. I want to write a novel some day and to have one of the scenes laid at a kettledrum. How can I describe one unless I see it myself?”