t of acting up to. See what happens to the
unfortunate novelist, for instance, who dares to break the unwritten
law, and defraud his readers of the orthodox transformation scene of
the reward of virtue and the discomfiture of vice; or to make his
creation finish up in a way that, however well it may be suited to its
tenor, or illustrate its more subtle meaning, is contrary to the
'general reader's' idea as to how it should end--badly, as it is
called. He simply collapses, to rise no more, if he is new at the
trade, and, if he is a known man, that book won't sell."

"You talk quite feelingly," said Angela, who was getting rather bored,
and wanted, not unnaturally, to hear more about her own lines.

"Yes," replied Arthur, grimly; "I do. Once I was fool enough to write
a book, but I must tell you that it is a painful subject with me. It
never came out. Nobody would have it."

"Oh! Arthur, I am so sorry; I should like to read your book. But, as
regards the verses, I am glad that you like them, and I really don't
care what a hypothetical general public would say; I wrote them to
please you, not the general public."

"Well, my dear, I am sure I am much obliged to you; I shall value them
doubly, once for the giver's sake, and once for their own."

Angela blushed, but did not reprove the term of endearment which had
slipped unawares from his lips. Poetry is a dangerous subject between
two young people who at heart adore one another; it is apt to excite
the brain, and bring about startling revelations.

The day following the reading of Angela's piece of poetry was rendered
remarkable by two events, of which the first was that the weather
suddenly turned a somersault, and became beautifully warm; and the
second that news reached the Abbey House that, thanks chiefly to Lady
Bellamy's devoted nursing--who, fearless of infection, had, to the
great admiration of all her neighbours, volunteered her services when
no nurse could be found to undertake the case--George was pronounced
out of danger. This piece of news was peculiarly grateful to Philip,
for, had his cousin died, the estates must have passed away for ever
under the terms of his uncle's will, for he knew that George had made
none. Angela, too, tried, like a good girl as she was, to lash herself
into enthusiasm about it, though in her heart she went as near hating
her cousin, since his attempted indignity towards herself, as her
gentle nature would allow. Arthur alone wa