You have made a very clear statement, my dear fellow. Don't weaken it
by apologies. What you say of me is as true as gospel--truer perhaps.
The only mistake you make is in ascribing to training what is really
to be attributed to temperament. What is bred in the bone, you know--
But never mind, I detest talking of myself. Now you have had
experiences worth talking of; let us hear some of your doings out
West, there!"

Long and late that night the two friends sat together. Now that the
first strangeness had worn off, and with it the consciousness of the
divergence of the roads which they had travelled since the old days,
Flint began to find his liking springing up as strong as ever, only
the liking was of a different kind. It was after midnight when he came
into the house, and betook himself to his own room. As he was pulling
off his coat, he suddenly remembered his unopened letter. He smiled
grimly, as it recalled the scene at the post-office, the glowering
official, and the grinning bystanders. He was still smiling as he took
the candle from the mantel-shelf and set it on the bureau, to which he
drew up his one rickety chair. He sat down and scrutinized the letter
again, and more closely.

The envelope was a large, square one, with the editorial address of
the "Transcontinental Magazine" in the left-hand corner. The writing
was in the large, loose scrawl of Brooke, the junior editor. He wrote
in haste as usual. All at the office was going well, new subscriptions
were coming in fast, and if Flint would keep away long enough, the
success of the "Transcontinental" would be secure. The letter which he
enclosed had been opened by mistake, being apparently a business
communication with no other address than "To the Editor;" but finding
it personal in character, he forwarded it unread, and remained as
always, Flint's faithful friend, C. Brooke.

The enclosed letter to which Brooke alluded presented a
curious contrast to his own. The handwriting was firm, but
delicate--distinctively feminine.

"I want to thank you," so the letter began, "not only for accepting my
verses on 'A Thimble,' but also for the words of encouragement with
which you accompany the acceptance. You say that you are especially
glad to print the verses because they suggest a return to the type of
womanhood of an earlier day, for which you retain an old-fashioned
admiration. Now, I scarcely know whether my verses are very deceitful,
or whether it is the r