as a new and unknown
writer."

"I hope that need not be for long," he said, "for I feel sure that you
will yet write stories as good as `His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"

All the manuscripts I had on hand I now sent to my good friend the
editor, and in due and proper order they appeared in his journal under
the name of John Darmstadt, which I had selected as a substitute for my
own, permanently disabled. I made a similar arrangement with other
editors, and John Darmstadt received the credit of everything that
proceeded from my pen. Our circumstances now became very comfortable,
and occasionally we even allowed ourselves to indulge in little dreams
of prosperity.

Time passed on very pleasantly. One year, another, and then a little
son was born to us. It is often difficult, I believe, for thoughtful
persons to decide whether the beginning of their conjugal career, or
the earliest weeks in the life of their first-born, be the happiest and
proudest period of their existence. For myself I can only say that the
same exaltation of mind, the same rarefication of idea and invention,
which succeeded upon my wedding day came upon me now. As then, my
ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into a motive for a story,
and without delay I set myself to work upon it. My boy was about six
weeks old when the manuscript was finished, and one evening, as we sat
before a comfortable fire in our sitting-room, with the curtains drawn,
and the soft lamp lighted, and the baby sleeping soundly in the
adjoining chamber, I read the story to my wife.

When I had finished, my wife arose and threw herself into my arms. "I
was never so proud of you," she said, her glad eyes sparkling, "as I am
at this moment. That is a wonderful story! It is, indeed I am sure it
is, just as good as `His Wife's Deceased Sister.'"

As she spoke these words, a sudden and chilling sensation crept over us
both. All her warmth and fervor, and the proud and happy glow
engendered within me by this praise and appreciation from one I loved,
vanished in an instant. We stepped apart, and gazed upon each other
with pallid faces. In the same moment the terrible truth had flashed
upon us both. This story WAS as good as "His Wife's Deceased Sister"!

We stood silent. The exceptional lot of Barbel's super-pointed pins
seemed to pierce our very souls. A dreadful vision rose before me of
an impending fall and crash, in which our domestic happiness should
vanish, a