t the bride," with strange sweet tears and a
complete indifference to its sacred allegorical signification. Next
afternoon he haunted the publishers' doorstep with the brilliant idea
that Mr. Armitage sometimes crossed it. In this hope, he did _not_ write
the letter; his phrases, he felt, would be better for the inspiration of
that gentleman's presence. Meanwhile he had ample time to mature them,
to review the situation in every possible light, to figure Esther under
the most poetical images, to see his future alternately radiant and
sombre. Four long summer days of espionage only left him with a
heartache, and a specialist knowledge of the sort of persons who visit
publishers. A temptation to bribe the office-boy he resisted as
unworthy.

Not only had he not written that letter, but Mr. Henry Goldsmith's
edict and Mrs. Henry Goldsmith's invitation were still unacknowledged.
On Thursday morning a letter from Addie indirectly reminded him both of
his remissness to her hostess, and of the existence of _The Flag of
Judah_. He remembered it was the day of going to press; a vision of the
difficulties of the day flashed vividly upon his consciousness; he
wondered if his ex-lieutenants were finding new ones. The smell of the
machine-room was in his nostrils; it co-operated with the appeal of his
good-nature to draw him to his successor's help. Virtue proved its own
reward. Arriving at eleven o'clock, he found little Sampson in great
excitement, with the fountain of melody dried up on his lips.--

"Thank God!" he cried. "I thought you'd come when you heard the news."

"What news?"

"Gideon the member for Whitechapel's dead. Died suddenly, early this
morning."

"How shocking!" said Raphael, growing white.

"Yes, isn't it?" said little Sampson. "If he had died yesterday, I
shouldn't have minded it so much, while to-morrow would have given us a
clear week. He hasn't even been ill," he grumbled. "I've had to send
Pinchas to the Museum in a deuce of a hurry, to find out about his early
life. I'm awfully upset about it, and what makes it worse is a telegram
from Goldsmith, ordering a page obituary at least with black rules,
besides a leader. It's simply sickening. The proofs are awful enough as
it is--my blessed editor has been writing four columns of his
autobiography in his most original English, and he wants to leave out
all the news part to make room for 'em. In one way Gideon's death is a
boon; even Pinchas'll see his stu