“Slowly, slowly; would you have me spoil my luck by telling what I have done?” asked Richard evasively, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, you superstitious boy,” laughed Penelope, lightly tapping him with her hand, which he immediately caught and held captive in his own. “Don’t be unkind,” he pleaded, as she tried to draw her hand away. “Not for worlds,” she replied gravely, ceasing to struggle. “Mr. John Stetson Maxwell called here last night, and he told me of an experience he had when he was an editor, that made me resolve never to speak or act unkindly if I can help it.” “I am deeply obliged to Mr. Maxwell,” Richard responded lightly. “But it was very sad, Dick. I felt unhappy all the evening over it.” “I wish my miseries and wretchedness could have the same influence on you,” he broke in with a laugh. “Don’t you want to hear the story? I had intended to tell it to you,” she said, half provoked at his lack of seriousness. “Why, certainly. By all means,” he replied, grave enough now. He never joked when she assumed that tone and look. “When he was an editor,” she began softly, “he one day received a very bright poem from a man in Buffalo. He did not know the man as a writer, still the poem was so meritorious that he straightway accepted it, and sent a note to the author enclosing a check for the work. A few days afterwards, the man’s card was sent in, with a request for an interview. Mr. Maxwell was very busy at the time, but he thought he would give the man a moment, so he told the boy to bring the visitor up. When he came in, Mr. Maxwell was surprised to see a young man of some twenty-five years. He was not well clad, and was much abashed when he found himself in the presence of such a great personage as the editor, Mr. Maxwell.” “Rightly, rightly,” Richard said, good naturedly, patting her hands encouragingly.