you're a brick!" They shook hands
in token of absolute agreement upon one subject at least, and the girl's
right hand hurt her for some little time afterward.

Left to himself, Mr. Perkins mused upon the dread prospect before him. For
years he had calculated upon a generous proportion of his Uncle
Ebeneezer's estate, and had even borrowed money upon the strength of his
expectations. These debts now loomed up inconveniently.

The vulgar, commercial people from whom Mr. Perkins had borrowed filthy
coin were quite capable of speaking of the matter, and in an unpleasant
manner at that. The fine soul of Mr. Perkins shrank from the ordeal. He
had that particular disdain of commercialism which is inseparable from the
incapable and unsuccessful, and yet, if the light of his genius were to
illuminate a desolate world, Mr. Perkins must have money.

He might even have to degrade himself by coarse toil--and hitherto, he had
been too proud to work. The thought was terrible. Pegasus hitched to the
plough was nothing compared with the prospect of Mr. Perkins being obliged
to earn three or four dollars a week in some humble, common capacity.

Then a bright idea came to his rescue. "Mr. Carr," he thought, "the
gentleman who is now entertaining me--he is doing my own kind of work,
though of course it is less fine in quality. Perhaps he would like the
opportunity of going down to posterity as the humble Maecenas of a new
Horace."

Borne to the library in the rush of this attractive idea, Mr. Perkins
opened the door, which Harlan had forgotten to lock, and without in any
way announcing himself, broke in on Harlan's chapter.

"What do you mean?" demanded the irate author. "What business have you
butting in here like this? Get out!"

"I--" stammered Mr. Perkins.

"Get out!" thundered Harlan. It sounded strangely like the last phrase of
"dear Uncle Ebeneezer's last communication," and, trembling, the
disconsolate poet obeyed. He fled to his own room as a storm-tossed ship
to its last harbour, and renewed the composition of his epic on
"Disappointment," for which, by this time, he had additional material.

Harlan went back to his work, but the mood was gone. The living, radiant
picture had wholly vanished, and in its place was a heap of dead, dry,
meaningless words. "Did I write it?" asked Harlan, of himself, "and if so,
why?"

Like the mocking fantasy of a dream as seen in the instant of waking,
Elaine and her company had gone, as