r he produced a diminutive coffee pot into
which he measured, with extreme care, just so much of the ground
berry, being rather over-nice about his demitasse. Having progressed
thus far in his preparation for pot, or frying-pan luck--and indeed it
seemed a matter of luck, or good fortune, how that mixture would turn
out--he rapped on the floor with the heel of his boot, like the prince
in the fairy tale, summoning his attendant good genii, and in a few
moments a light tapping on the door announced the coming of a
servitor.

Not a mighty wraith nor spook of Arabian fancy, but a very small girl,
or child, with very black hair, very white skin and very dark,
beautiful eyes. A daughter of mixed ancestry, yet with her dainty
hands and little feet, she seemed descended from sprites or sylphs.

"Monsieur called," she said in her pretty dialect.

"Yes, my dear. Go to Monsieur Tortier's, Celestina, and tell him to
give you a bottle of the kind Monsieur Straws always takes."

"At once, Monsieur," she answered, very gravely, very seriously. And
Celestina vanished like a butterfly that flutters quickly away.

"Now this won't be bad after all," thought Straws, sniffing at the
frying-pan which had begun to sputter bravely over the coals, while
the coffee pot gave forth a fragrant steam. "A good bottle of wine
will transform a snack into a collation; turn pot-luck into a feast!"

As thus he meditated the first of night's outriders, its fast-coming
shadows, stole through the window; following these swift van-couriers,
night's chariot came galloping across the heavens; in the sky several
little clouds melted like Cleopatra's pearls. Musing before his fire
the poet sat, not dreaming thoughts no mortal ever dreamed before, but
turning the bacon and apples and stirring in a few herbs, for no
other particular reason than that he had them and thought he might as
well use them.

"Celestina is taking longer than usual," he mused. "Perhaps, though,
Monsieur Tortier intends to surprise me with an unusually fine bottle.
Yes; that is undoubtedly the reason for the delay. He is hunting about
in the cellar for something a little out of the ordinary. But here is
Celestina now!" as the child reappeared, with footsteps so noiseless
the poet saw before he heard her. "Where is the bottle, my little
Ariel? It must be an extra fine vintage. Bless old Tortier's noble
heart!"

"There isn't any bottle," said the child. "Monsieur said that your
accou