bs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the _crepe de Chine_
with tears.

"There, there, there!" soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble.
"And what is it, now?"

"Andy," sobbed Maggie. "I've lied to you, and you'll never marry me,
or love me any more. But I feel that I've got to tell. Andy, there
never was so much as the little finger of a count. I never had a
beau in my life. But all the other girls had; and they talked about
'em; and that seemed to make the fellows like 'em more. And, Andy,
I look swell in black--you know I do. So I went out to a photograph
store and bought that picture, and had a little one made for my
locket, and made up all that story about the Count, and about his
being killed, so I could wear black. And nobody can love a liar, and
you'll shake me, Andy, and I'll die for shame. Oh, there never was
anybody I liked but you--and that's all."

But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy's arm folding her
closer. She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling.

"Could you--could you forgive me, Andy?"

"Sure," said Andy. "It's all right about that. Back to the cemetery
for the Count. You've straightened everything out, Maggie. I was in
hopes you would before the wedding-day. Bully girl!"

"Andy," said Maggie, with a somewhat shy smile, after she had been
thoroughly assured of forgiveness, "did you believe all that story
about the Count?"

"Well, not to any large extent," said Andy, reaching for his cigar
case, "because it's Big Mike Sullivan's picture you've got in that
locket of yours."

THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION

The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject, for he
can then set down his theory of what it is; and next, at length,
his conception of what it is not--and lo! his paper is covered.
Therefore let us follow the prolix and unmapable trail into that
mooted country, Bohemia.

Grainger, sub-editor of _Doc's Magazine_, closed his roll-top desk,
put on his hat, walked into the hall, punched the "down" button, and
waited for the elevator.

Grainger's day had been trying. The chief had tried to ruin the
magazine a dozen times by going against Grainger's ideas for running
it. A lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought a
portfolio of poems in person.

Grainger was curator of the Lion's House of the magazine. That day
he had "lunched" an Arctic explorer, a short-story writer, and the
famous conductor of a slaughter-house expose. Consequent