people I have heard of;' said Reardon, laughing.

'But the odd thing is, that he always strikes one as practical-minded.
Don't you feel that, Mrs Reardon?'

He and Amy talked for a few minutes, and Reardon, seemingly lost in
meditation, now and then observed them from the corner of his eye.

At eleven o'clock husband and wife were alone again.

'You don't mean to say,' exclaimed Amy, 'that Biffen has sold his coat?'

'Or pawned it.'

'But why not the overcoat?'

'Partly, I should think, because it's the warmer of the two; partly,
perhaps, because the other would fetch more.'

'That poor man will die of starvation, some day, Edwin.'

'I think it not impossible.'

'I hope you gave him something to eat?'

'Oh yes. But I could see he didn't like to take as much as he wanted.
I don't think of him with so much pity as I used that's a result of
suffering oneself.'

Amy set her lips and sighed.

CHAPTER XI. RESPITE

The last volume was written in fourteen days. In this achievement
Reardon rose almost to heroic pitch, for he had much to contend with
beyond the mere labour of composition. Scarcely had he begun when a
sharp attack of lumbago fell upon him; for two or three days it was
torture to support himself at the desk, and he moved about like a
cripple. Upon this ensued headaches, sore-throat, general enfeeblement.
And before the end of the fortnight it was necessary to think of raising
another small sum of money; he took his watch to the pawnbroker's (you
can imagine that it would not stand as security for much), and sold a
few more books. All this notwithstanding, here was the novel at length
finished. When he had written 'The End' he lay back, closed his eyes,
and let time pass in blankness for a quarter of an hour.

It remained to determine the title. But his brain refused another
effort; after a few minutes' feeble search he simply took the name of
the chief female character, Margaret Home. That must do for the book.
Already, with the penning of the last word, all its scenes, personages,
dialogues had slipped away into oblivion; he knew and cared nothing more
about them.

'Amy, you will have to correct the proofs for me. Never as long as I
live will I look upon a page of this accursed novel. It has all but
killed me.'

'The point is,' replied Amy, 'that here we have it complete. Pack it up
and take it to the publishers' to-morrow morning.'

'I will.'

'And--you will ask them to advance you a