And then he kissed her for the twentieth time at least, and Fair drew back, saying brightly: “You shall not kiss me again to-day, sir, and I think you had better stop talking love, and think about your novel.” “The plots for which you have scattered to the four winds of heaven,” he retorted, as he went down on his knees to gather the scattered clippings. “No; do not put them away yet. There were several good things among them--no, I won’t get frightened again,” as he declined to let her have them. She drew them gently from him, and hurriedly took out one, which she put into his hand, saying falteringly: “Would not this make a creditable novel?” Bayard Lorraine took the clipping from Fair’s trembling little white hand, and sat down by her side to read it, and if his eyes had not been turned from her face he would have seen that her eyes had a troubled light, and that she had grown pale again, while her form trembled with agitation. But he did not look at her. He began to read the paragraph, which had a sensational heading, running thus: The Finale of a Romantic Story of Love, Pride, and Ambition among the Working Classes. A slight frown contracted Bayard Lorraine’s straight brows, and he read on: The deliberate suicide by drowning in the East River yesterday of Carl Bernicci, an Italian who kept a small fruit and confectionery stand near the wharf, forms the sequel to a romantic story which reached our reporter through the friends of the suicide. It appears that there worked in a garment factory a pretty little girl by the name of Fielding, a vain little creature, whose head was quite turned by the beauty of her own big, brown eyes and curly, red hair. The little beauty was clever and ambitious, and in the hope of making a grand match through her good looks, held aloof from her admirers in her own class of life, treating them with scorn and indifference.