d the room and shut the door, he saw lying upon his table his
note-book, open as he had left it. He had been amusing himself, just
before he went out, with further suggestions for his story. He dipped
his pen into the ink and drew a bold, straight line across the page. He
stood looking at the leaf,--idle fancy above the line, a blank below it.

A knock at the door, and Henry Wilding entered. Buckingham greeted him
with a sudden excess of fervor which puzzled the young man.

"I was sorry to miss finding you," he began, and then checked himself.
"Not so very sorry either, since fortune made me acquainted with--your
cousin--and with Miss Vila," he added, after an embarrassed pause.

"I don't understand," said Wilding. "Have I missed a call from you?"

"Yes. I just came from your house. Your cousin at first thought you were
at home. Now I think of it, she--"

"But I don't live at my cousin's," said Wilding.

"Where do you live, then?"

"Next door to her house."

"Oh! then she sent out for you. That explains it." And so Mr.
Buckingham, intent on his own affairs, brushed away the duplicity of the
fair hostess. "But I was very glad to hear a piece of news about you
from her. Let me congratulate you. I did not know you were engaged." And
he shook Wilding's hand warmly. He was not so generous at the moment as
he appeared. In reality, he was shaking his own hand in anticipation.
Wilding responded with a good-natured laugh.

"I have sometimes wondered, Mr. Buckingham," he said, "how you, who
write stories of love and marriage, should remain unmarried."

"Let us put it the other way. How can I who am unmarried write such
stories? In truth, I have a dim sense that persons like you, who know
the matter by experience, must laugh inwardly at my innocent attempts at
realistic treatment."

"Why not, then, have the experience first?" said Wilding lightly.

"God forbid!" said Buckingham, with a somewhat unintelligible
seriousness. "If I were ever in love, it seems to me I should stop
writing love-stories."

Now, this was just what happened, for a time at least. To any one so
dead in love as Buckingham was at this time, all circumstances are
favorable. It needs but a given moment, and the hero is on hand ready to
seize it. The next night he could not ride out from the city; he must
walk. When he got beyond the bridge, he wondered that he saw no
horse-cars coming toward him. He remembered that he had seen none for
some time, b