an remember thee as a brother,
And lay my fond true heart at the loving feet of another.
For though just at present I can do nothing but sigh & groan,
The Holy Bible tells us it is not good for a man to dwell alone.
But even though, alas, I'm married, my poor heart will still be true,
And oft in the lone night I will wake & weep to think she never
can be you."
--"A BROKEN-HEARTED ADMIRER."

"Ain't that sad and sweet, though?" said the Butterfly Man admiringly.
"Don't you hope those loving feet will be extra loving when
Broken-hearted makes 'em a present of his fond heart, parson? Wouldn't
it be something fierce if they stepped on it! Gee, I cried in my hat
when I first read that!" Now wasn't it a curious coincidence that,
even as Madame, I regarded John Flint with open mouth and eyes, and
retired hastily?

For some time the _Clarion_ had been getting worse and worse; heaven
knows how it managed to appear on time, and we expected each issue to
be its last. It wasn't news to Appleboro that it was on its last legs.
I was not particularly interested in its threatened demise, not having
John Flint's madness for its obituaries; but he watched it narrowly.

"Did you know," he remarked to Laurence, "that the poor old _Clarion_
is ready to bust? It will have to write a death-notice for itself in a
week or two, the editor told me this morning."

"So?" Laurence seemed as indifferent as I.

The Butterfly Man shot him a freighted glance. "Folks in this county
will sort of miss the _Clarion_," he reflected. "After all, it's the
one county paper. Seems to me," he mused, "that if _I_ were going in
head, neck and crop for the sweet little job of reformer-general, I'd
first off get me a grappling-hook on my town's one newspaper.
Particularly when grappling-hooks were going cheap."

"Hasn't Inglesby got a mortgage on it?"

"If he had would he let it die in its bed so nice and ladylike? Not
much! It'd kick out the footboard and come alive. Inglesby must be
getting rusty in the joints not to reach out for the _Clarion_
himself, right now. Maybe he figures it's not worth the price. Maybe
he knows this town so well he's dead sure nobody that buys a newspaper
here would have the nerve to print anything or think anything he
didn't approve of. Yes, I guess that's it."

"Which is your gentle way," cut in Laurence, "of telling me I'd better
hustle out and gather in the _Clarion_ before Inglesby beat