“Come in,” said Andy.

“I suppose this is Mr. Grant,” began the young man, bowing.  “I am Mr. Warren, and live in the room opposite.”

“Won’t you come in and sit down?” asked Andy, with a glance at the only chair the room contained.

“Don’t let me take your only chair.  I’ll sit on the bed, if you don’t mind.”

“Make yourself at home, Mr. Warren,” said Andy, with easy cordiality.

“So you know my name?”

“Mrs. Norris spoke to me of you.”

“Did she?  What did she say?” asked the young man, showing some curiosity.

“I think she said you were literary—­that you wrote for some of the magazines.”

“Yes; I am very fond of writing.  Do you write?”

“Not for publication.”

“Ah, yes, I see.  You would be rather young for an author.”

“Are you connected with any particular magazine?”

“No.  I am a free lance.  I contribute to several.  I have just sent an article to the Century.”

Andy was rather surprised, for he knew that the Century held high rank among contemporary magazines.  It did not occur to him that any one might send an article to that magazine, but that to have it accepted and published would be a different matter.

“I suppose you enjoy writing?”

“Yes; there is nothing I like so well.”

“Perhaps you will show me some of your articles.”

“I can show you a poem which appeared last week in the village paper at home.”

“Thank you, I should like to see it.”

Mr. Warren went up to his room, and speedily returned with a small weekly paper.

On the front page, at the head of the first column, was a short poem by G. Byron Warren.  This was the first stanza, which Mr. Warren volunteered to read aloud: 

  “’I’d like to be a robin,
    And flit from bough to bough;
  I’d pour sweet music on the air
    If God would teach me how.’”

“I don’t quite like that last line,” he said looking up from the paper.  “Can you suggest any improvement?”

“You might say, ‘And charm the pensive cow,’” suggested Andy, mischievously.

“True, that might be a striking figure.  I will consider it when I revise the poem for publication in book form.”

The rest of the poem was of similar quality.

“I don’t think they would accept that for the Century,” thought Andy.

“Do you devote yourself to literary work, or are you in business?” he asked.

“I may go into business, but at present I only write.  I send a letter once a month to the Greenville Banner.”

“I suppose they pay?”

“Oh—­ah, yes,” answered the poet, in a hesitating voice, “but the terms are strictly confidential.  If you ever pick up any incidents in your daily walks, Mr. Grant, I shall be glad if you will communicate them to me, that I may weave them into my correspondence.”