sanctum, trying to quiet the tumultuous beating of her heart.  Presently a tall, spare man, with thin, cadaverous visage, entered, bowed, took a chair, and eyed her with a “what-do-you-want” sort of expression.  His grizzled hair was cut short, and stood up like bristles, and his keen blue eyes were by no means promising, in their cold glitter.  Beulah threw off her veil and said, with rather an unsteady voice: 

“You are the editor of the magazine published here, I believe?”

He bowed again, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands at the back of his head.

“I came to offer you an article for the magazine.”  She threw down the roll of paper on a chair.

“Ah!—­hem!—­will you favor me with your name?”

“Beulah Benton, sir.  One altogether unknown to fame.”

He contracted his eyes, coughed, and said constrainedly: 

“Are you a subscriber?”

“I am.”

“What is the character of your manuscript?” He took it up as he spoke, and glanced over the pages.

“You can determine that from a perusal.  If the sketch suits you, I should like to become a regular contributor.”

A gleam of sunshine strayed over the countenance, and the editor answered, very benignly: 

“If the article meets with our approbation, we shall be very happy to afford you a medium of publication in our journal.  Can we depend on your punctuality?”

“I think so.  What are your terms?”

“Terms, madam?  I supposed that your contribution was gratuitous,” said he very loftily.

“Then you are most egregiously mistaken!  What do you imagine induces me to write?”

“Why, desire for fame, I suppose.”

“Fame is rather unsatisfactory fare.  I am poor, sir, and write to aid me in maintaining myself.”

“Are you dependent solely on your own exertions, madam?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry I cannot aid you; but nowadays there are plenty of authors who write merely as a pastime, and we have as many contributions as we can well look over.”

“I am to understand, then, that the magazine is supported altogether by gratuitous contributions?” said Beulah, unable to repress a smile.

“Why, you see, authorship has become a sort of luxury,” was the hesitating reply.

“I think the last number of your magazine contained, among other articles in the ‘Editor’s Drawer,’ an earnest appeal to Southern authors to come to the rescue of Southern periodicals?”

“True, madam.  Southern intellect seems steeped in a lethargy from which we are most faithfully endeavoring to arouse it.”

“The article to which I allude also animadverted severely upon the practice of Southern authors patronizing Northern publishing establishments?”

“Most certainly it treated the subject stringently.”  He moved uneasily.

“I believe the subscription is the same as that of the Northern periodicals?”