was a faithful
list of Miss Millicent's charms, so far as they were apparent to him.
Shirley had noted them down with great carefulness, and would be sure to
notice how fully the authoress met the ideal he now had in mind. It only
remained for the schemer to say something to Miss Fern that would
suggest Roseleaf to her, whenever they were made acquainted.

It must be plain to the reader that Mr. Weil's principal intention in
this whole matter was to dispose of the _ennui_ which idleness brings
even to its most adoring devotees. He had a fair fortune, accumulated
by a father who had denied himself every luxury to amass it. Drifting to
New York, he had found the vicinity of the Hoffman House very agreeable,
and his companions, with the exception of Mr. Gouger, were of about as
light views of life as himself. The critic was one of those strange
exceptions with which most of us come in contact, where persons of
entirely opposite tastes and inclinations become attached friends.

Breakfast was served so late to Mr. Weil that he had not finished that
repast when the young novelist made his appearance. Seating himself on
the side of the table that faced his friend, Mr. Roseleaf responded to
the latter's inquiries in regard to his health by saying that he was
quite well. Indeed, he looked it. His eye was bright, his cheek rosy.
His attire showed just enough of a negligent quality to be attractive.
There was an air about him such as is often associated with an artist of
the pencil and brush.

"Never better in health," he said, "but very anxious to begin something
definite in the way of work."

Mr. Weil smiled his most affable smile.

"What did I tell you to do, first?" he asked, playfully.

"To fall in love."

"Which you have not yet done!"

The young man shook his head.

"Good Heavens! And you have lost more than a week!"

Roseleaf colored more than ever.

"Isn't there something else--that I could--begin on?" he asked, humbly.

"I don't know of anything. Love is the alphabet of the novelist. You'd
best go straight. Aren't there any eligible young women at your lodging
house?"

The younger man thought a moment.

"No; only the chambermaid."

Mr. Weil sipped his coffee with a wise expression.

"It may come to that," he said, putting down the cup, "but we'll hope
not. We will hope not. What's the matter with Central Park? There are
five hundred nice girls there every afternoon."

"But I don't know them," said