the characters in his romance had succeeded in producing.  But the enchantress who had effected this, so far from being the most unadulterated product of his own brain and genius, was the only one of all his dramatis personae who was not in the slightest degree indebted to him for her existence.  She was nothing more than an accurate copy of Mary the house-maid, while the others—­the mis-formed, ill-balanced, one-sided creations, who, the moment they were placed beyond the pale of their written instructions—­put out of the regular and pre-arranged order of their going—­displayed in every word and gesture their utter lack and want of comprehension of the simplest elements of human nature:  these were the unaided offspring of the author’s fancy.  And yet it was by help of such as these he had thought to push his way to immortality!  How the world would laugh at him! and, as he thought this, a few bitter tears of shame and humiliation trickled down the sides of the poor man’s nose.

Presently he looked up.  The warlike Sam remained sitting disconsolately in the coal-hod; his instructions suggested no means of extrication.  Forsaken Constance lay fainting on the sofa, waiting for some one to chafe her hands and bathe her temples.  The strikingly handsome betrayer leant in sullen and gloomy silence against the mantel-piece, ready to treat all advances with stern and defiant obduracy.  The benevolent uncle stood with open arms and bland smile, never doubting but that everybody was preparing for a simultaneous rush to, and participation in, his embrace; and, finally, the pretty little country girl, with her arms akimbo and her nose in the air, remained mistress of the situation.  Her unheard of innovation, of having done something timely, sensible, and decisive, even though not put down in the book, seemed to have paralyzed all the others.  Ah! she was the only one there who was not less than a shadow.  The author felt his desolate heart yearn towards her, and the next moment found himself on his knees at her feet.

“Mary,” cried he, “you are my only reality.  The others are empty and soulless, but you have a heart.  They are the children of a conceited brain and visionary experience; you, only, have I drawn simply and unaffectedly, as you actually existed.  Except for you, whom I slighted and despised, my whole romance had been an unmitigated falsehood.  To you I owe my preservation from worse than folly, and my initiation into true wisdom.  Mary—­dear Mary, in return I have but one thing to offer you—­my heart!  Can you—­will you not love me?”—­

To his intense surprise, Mary, instead of evincing a becoming sense of her romantic situation, burst forth into a merry peal of laughter, and, catching him by one shoulder, gave him a hearty shake.

“La sakes!  Mr. Author, do wake up! did ever anybody hear such a man!”

There was his room, his fire, his chair, his table, and his closely-written manuscript lying quietly upon it.  There was he himself on his knees on the carpet, and—­there was Mary the house-maid, one hand holding the brimming tea-pot, the other held by the author against his lips, and laughing and blushing in a tumult of surprise, amusement and, perhaps, something better than either.