hat sprang up in her heart as he pressed her hand, and
with that unmistakable delight in his eyes at being in her presence.
'Do I care for him as much as that?' she asked herself, and the
question answered itself as such questions do.

Mark was his own master now, for he had given up his appointment at
St. Peter's, although Mr. Shelford strongly advised him to go in for
some regular profession besides literature.

'There'll come a day,' he told him, 'when you've played out all your
tunes and your barrel is worn smooth, and no one will throw you any
more coppers. Then you'll want a regular employment to fall back upon.
Why don't you get called?'

'Because I don't want to be tied down,' said Mark. 'I want to go about
and study character. I want to enjoy my life while I can.'

'So did the grasshopper,' said Mr. Shelford.

'You don't believe in me, I know,' said Mark. 'You think I shall never
do anything like "Illusion" again. Well, I believe in myself. I think
my tunes will last out my life at all events. I really work
uncommonly hard. I have two novels ready for the press at this
moment, which is pretty well for a mere grasshopper.'

'But wearing for a mere barrel-organ,' said the old gentleman. 'Be
careful; don't write too much. The public never forgive a
disappointment. Whatever you do, give them of your best.'

And shortly after this conversation Mark left his novel, 'Sweet Bells
Jangled,' with Chilton and Fladgate, mentioning terms which even to
himself seemed slightly exorbitant. He had a note from the firm in the
course of a day or two, appointing an interview, and on going up to
the publishing office found both of the partners waiting to receive
him. Mr. Chilton was a spare angular man, who confined himself chiefly
to the purely financial department.

'We have decided to accept your terms, subject to a few modifications
which we can discuss presently,' he said.

'You think the book is likely to be a success?' asked Mark, unable to
control his anxiety.

'Any work by the author of "Illusion" is sure to command attention,'
said Mr. Chilton.

'But you like the subject?' pursued Mark.

Mr. Chilton coughed. 'I can express no opinion,' he said. 'I don't
profess to be a judge of these matters. Fladgate has read the book; he
will tell you what he thinks about it.'

But Mr. Fladgate remained silent, and Mark, much as he longed to press
him, was too proud to do so. However, as the firm demanded a rather
consi