sed his face, but he did not look at the woman in the door. "In
a minute, dear," he said; "I am busy with these gentlemen."

The girl gave a little "oh" of apology, smiled at her husband's bent
head, inclined her own again slightly to the other men, and let the
portiere close behind her. It had been as dramatic an entrance and exit
as the two visitors had ever seen upon the stage. It was as if Aram had
given a signal, and the only person who could help him had come in the
nick of time to plead for him. Aram, stupid as he appeared to be, had
evidently felt the effect his wife's appearance had made upon his
judges. He still kept his eyes fixed upon the floor, but he said, and
this time with more confidence in his tone:--

"It is not, gentlemen, as though I were an old man. I have so very long
to live--so long to try to live this down. Why, I am as young as you
are. How would you like to have a thing like this to carry with you till
you died?"

The editor still stood staring blankly at the curtains through which Mr.
Aram's good angel, for whom he had lied and cheated in order to gain
credit in her eyes, had disappeared. He pushed them aside with his
stick. "We will let you know to-morrow morning," he repeated, and the
two men passed out from the poet's presence, and on into the hall. They
descended the stairs in an uncomfortable silence, Bronson leading the
way, and the editor endeavoring to read his verdict by the back of his
head and shoulders.

At the foot of the steps he pulled his friend by the sleeve. "Bronson,"
he coaxed, "you are not going to use it, are you?"

Bronson turned on him savagely. "For Heaven's sake!" he protested, "what
do you think I am; did you _see_ her?"

So the New York ---- lost a very good story, and Bronson a large sum of
money for not writing it, and Mr. Aram was taught a lesson, and his
young wife's confidence in him remained unshaken. The editor and
reporter dined together that night, and over their cigars decided with
sudden terror that Mr. Aram might, in his ignorance of their good
intentions concerning him, blow out his brains, and for nothing. So they
despatched a messenger-boy up town in post-haste with a note saying that
"the firm" had decided to let the matter drop. Although, perhaps, it
would have been better to have given him one sleepless night at least.

That was three years ago, and since then Mr. Aram's father has fallen
out with Tammany, and has been retired from public