n's success; rather it was because it made a neat little
advertisement of their own particular foresight, such as it was. In
fact, in his own town (because he had refused to live in it!)
Warrington was a lion of no small dimensions.

Warrington's novel (the only one he ever wrote) was known to few. To
tell the truth, the very critics that were now praising the dramatist
had slashed the novelist cruelly. And thereby hangs a tale. A New York
theatrical manager sent for Warrington one day and told him that he
had read the book, and if the author would attempt a dramatic version,
the manager would give it a fair chance. Warrington, the bitterness of
failure in his soul, undertook the work, and succeeded. Praise would
have made an indifferent novelist of him, for he was a born dramatist.

Regularly each year he visited his birthplace for a day or so, to pay
in person his taxes. For all that he labored in New York, he still
retained his right to vote in his native town.

A sudden desire seized him to-night to return to his home, to become a
citizen in fact and deed. It was now the time of year when the spring
torrents flood the lowlands, when the melting snows trickle down the
bleak hillsides, when the dead hand of winter lies upon the bosom of
awakening spring, and the seed is in travail. Heigh-ho! the world went
very well in the springs of old; care was in bondage, and all the many
gateways to the heart were bastioned and sentineled.

"Sir, a lady wishes to see you."

Warrington turned. His valet stood respectfully in the doorway.

"The name?" Warrington rose impatiently. Nobody likes to have his
dreams disturbed.

"Miss Challoner, sir."

"Challoner!" in surprise; "and this time of night?" He stroked his
chin. A moment passed. Not that he hesitated to admit her; rather he
wished to make a final analysis of his heart before his eyes fell down
to worship her beauty. "Admit her at once." He brushed the ashes from
his jacket and smoothed his hair. The valet disappeared. "If I only
loved the woman, loved her honestly, boldly, fearlessly, what a
difference it would make! I don't love her, and I realize that I never
did. She never touched my heart, only my eye and mind. I may be
incapable of loving any one; perhaps that's it. But what can have
possessed her to leave the theater this time of night?"

A swish of petticoats, a rush of cool air with which mingled an
indefinable perfume, and, like a bird taking momentary re