Miss Prune raised her voice, and commenced:—­

  “O star-eyed Nightingale,
  How nobly thou dost sail
  Through the air! 
  No other bird can compare
  With the tuneful song
  Which to thee doth belong. 
  I sit and hear thee sing,
  While with tireless wing
    Thou dost fly. 
  And it makes me feel so sad,
  It makes me feel so bad,
    I know not why,
  And I heave so many sighs,
  O warbler of the skies!”

“Is there much more?” asked the editor.

“That is the first verse.  There are fifteen more,” said Prunella.

“Then I think I shall not have time at present to hear you read it all.  You may leave it, and I will look it over at my leisure.”

“If it suits you,” said Prunella, “how much will it be worth?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How much would you be willing to pay for it?”

“Oh, we never pay for poems,” said Mr. Houghton.

“Why not?” asked Miss Prune, evidently disappointed.

“Our contributors are kind enough to send them gratuitously.”

“Is that fostering American talent?” demanded Prunella, indignantly.

“American poetical talent doesn’t require fostering, judging from the loads of poems which are sent in to us.”

“You pay for stories, I presume?”

“Yes, we pay for good, popular stories.”

“I have one here,” said Prunella, untying her manuscript, “which I should like to read to you.”

“You may read the first paragraph, if you please.  I haven’t time to hear more.  What is the title?”

“‘The Bandit’s Bride.’  This is the way it opens:—­

“’The night was tempestuous.  Lightnings flashed in the cerulean sky, and the deep-voiced thunder rolled from one end of the firmament to the other.  It was a landscape in Spain.  From a rocky defile gayly pranced forth a masked cavalier, Roderigo di Lima, a famous bandit chief.

“’"Ha! ha!” he laughed in demoniac glee, “the night is well fitted to my purpose.  Ere it passes, Isabella Gomez shall be mine."’”

“I think that will do,” said Mr. Houghton, hastily.  “I am afraid that style won’t suit our readers.”

“Why not?” demanded Prunella, sharply.  “I can assure you, sir, that it has been praised by excellent judges in our village.”

“It is too exciting for our readers.  You had better carry it to ’The Weekly Corsair.’”

“Do they pay well for contributions?”

“I really can’t say.  How much do you expect?”

“This story will make about five columns.  I think twenty-five dollars will be about right.”

“I am afraid you will be disappointed.  We can’t afford to pay such prices, and the ‘Corsair’ has a smaller circulation than our paper.”

“How much do you pay?”

“Two dollars a column.”

“I expected more,” said Prunella, “but I will write for you at that price.”