lines that veiled and revealed a level, dismal landscape, and a vast flame against an empty sky, and a shape out of the flame that took on a likeness and floated detached from it.  The sketch ran up the left side of the sheet and stretched across it.  Beaton laughed out.  Pretty good to let Fulkerson have that for the cover of his first number!  In black and red it would be effective; it would catch the eye from the news-stands.  He made a motion to throw it on the fire, but held it back and slid it into the table-drawer, and smoked on.  He saw the dummy with the other sketch in the open drawer which he had brought away from Fulkerson’s in the morning and slipped in there, and he took it out and looked at it.  He made some criticisms in line with his pencil on it, correcting the drawing here and there, and then he respected it a little more, though he still smiled at the feminine quality—­a young lady quality.

In spite of his experience the night he called upon the Leightons, Beaton could not believe that Alma no longer cared for him.  She played at having forgotten him admirably, but he knew that a few months before she had been very mindful of him.  He knew he had neglected them since they came to New York, where he had led them to expect interest, if not attention; but he was used to neglecting people, and he was somewhat less used to being punished for it—­punished and forgiven.  He felt that Alma had punished him so thoroughly that she ought to have been satisfied with her work and to have forgiven him in her heart afterward.  He bore no resentment after the first tingling moments were-past; he rather admired her for it; and he would have been ready to go back half an hour later and accept pardon and be on the footing of last summer again.  Even now he debated with himself whether it was too late to call; but, decidedly, a quarter to ten seemed late.  The next day he determined never to call upon the Leightons again; but he had no reason for this; it merely came into a transitory scheme of conduct, of retirement from the society of women altogether; and after dinner he went round to see them.

He asked for the ladies, and they all three received him, Alma not without a surprise that intimated itself to him, and her mother with no appreciable relenting; Miss Woodburn, with the needlework which she found easier to be voluble over than a book, expressed in her welcome a neutrality both cordial to Beaton and loyal to Alma.

“Is it snowing outdo’s?” she asked, briskly, after the greetings were transacted.  “Mah goodness!” she said, in answer to his apparent surprise at the question.  “Ah mahght as well have stayed in the Soath, for all the winter Ah have seen in New York yet.”

“We don’t often have snow much before New-Year’s,” said Beaton.

“Miss Woodburn is wild for a real Northern winter,” Mrs. Leighton explained.

“The othah naght Ah woke up and looked oat of the window and saw all the roofs covered with snow, and it turned oat to be nothing but moonlaght.  Ah was never so disappointed in mah lahfe,” said Miss Woodburn.