The author laid down his pen, and leaned back in his big easy chair.  The last word had been written—­Finis—­and there was the complete book, quite a tall pile of manuscript, only waiting for the printer’s hands to become immortal:  so the author whispered to himself.  He had worked hard upon it; great pains had been expended upon the delineations of character, and the tone and play of incident; the plot, too, had been worked up with much artistic force and skill; and, above all, everything was so strikingly original; no one, in regarding the various characters of the tale, could say:  this is intended for so-and-so!  No, nothing precisely like the persons in his romance had ever actually existed; of that the author was certain, and in that he was very probably correct.  To be sure, there was the character of the country girl, Mary, which he had taken from his own little waiting-maid:  but that was a very subordinate element, and although, on the whole, he rather regretted having introduced anything so incongruous and unimaginative, he decided to let it go.  The romance, as a whole, was too great to be injured by one little country girl, drawn from real life.  “And by the way,” murmured the author to himself, “I wish Mary would bring in my tea.”

He settled himself still more comfortably in his easy chair, and thought, and looked at his manuscript; and the manuscript looked back; but all its thinking had been done for it.  Neither spoke—­the author, because the book already knew all he had to say; and the book, because its time to speak and be immortal had not yet arrived.  The fire had all the talking to itself, and it cackled, and hummed, and skipped about so cheerfully that one would have imagined it expected to be the very first to receive a presentation copy of the work on the table.  “How I would devour its contents!” laughed the fire.

Perhaps the author did not comprehend the full force of the fire’s remark, but the voice was so cosy and soothing, the fire itself so ruddy and genial, and the easy chair so softly cushioned and hospitable, that he very soon fell into a condition which enabled him to see, hear, and understand a great many things which might seem remarkable, and, indeed, almost incredible.

The manuscript on the table which had hitherto remained perfectly quiet, now rustled its leaves nervously, and finally flung itself wide open.  A murmur then arose, as of several voices, and presently there appeared (though whether stepping from between the leaves of the book itself, or growing together from the surrounding atmosphere, the author could not well make out) a number of peculiar-looking individuals, at the first glance appearing to be human beings, though a clear investigation revealed in each some odd lack or exaggeration of gesture, feature, or manner, which might create a doubt as to whether they actually were, after all, what they purported to be, or only some lusus naturae.  But the author was not slow to recognize them, more especially as, happening to cast a glance at the manuscript, he noticed that it was such no longer, but a collection of unwritten sheets of paper, blank as when it lay in the drawer at the stationer’s—­unwitting of the lofty destiny awaiting it.