t yourself and show me whatever strikes you as obscene--that was
the word, wasn't it?"

"He says so, and he ought to know," was the answer, with a wave aside of
the manuscript, accompanied by a look of loathing. "And he says you've
got to tear it up. He says he won't have no wife of his with such things
written about her which anybody can read. He says it's a disgrace, an'
he won't stand for it."

"Now, look here, Marian, this is nothing but nonsense," Martin began;
then abruptly changed his mind.

He saw before him an unhappy girl, knew the futility of attempting to
convince her husband or her, and, though the whole situation was absurd
and preposterous, he resolved to surrender.

"All right," he announced, tearing the manuscript into half a dozen
pieces and throwing it into the waste-basket.

He contented himself with the knowledge that even then the original type-
written manuscript was reposing in the office of a New York magazine.
Marian and her husband would never know, and neither himself nor they nor
the world would lose if the pretty, harmless poem ever were published.

Marian, starting to reach into the waste-basket, refrained.

"Can I?" she pleaded.

He nodded his head, regarding her thoughtfully as she gathered the torn
pieces of manuscript and tucked them into the pocket of her jacket--ocular
evidence of the success of her mission. She reminded him of Lizzie
Connolly, though there was less of fire and gorgeous flaunting life in
her than in that other girl of the working class whom he had seen twice.
But they were on a par, the pair of them, in dress and carriage, and he
smiled with inward amusement at the caprice of his fancy which suggested
the appearance of either of them in Mrs. Morse's drawing-room. The
amusement faded, and he was aware of a great loneliness. This sister of
his and the Morse drawing-room were milestones of the road he had
travelled. And he had left them behind. He glanced affectionately about
him at his few books. They were all the comrades left to him.

"Hello, what's that?" he demanded in startled surprise.

Marian repeated her question.

"Why don't I go to work?" He broke into a laugh that was only
half-hearted. "That Hermann of yours has been talking to you."

She shook her head.

"Don't lie," he commanded, and the nod of her head affirmed his charge.

"Well, you tell that Hermann of yours to mind his own business; that when
I write poetry about the girl h