“Delighted to see you both,” he said, cordially, offering his hand.  “I don’t live in a palace, and my servants are all absent, but if you will deign to become my guests I will do what I can for your comfort.”

“You have anticipated my request,” said Melville.  “Let me introduce myself as George Melville, an invalid by profession, just come from New England in search of health.  My young friend here is Herbert Carr, my private secretary and faithful companion, who has not yet found out what it is to be in poor-health.  Without him I should hardly have dared to come so far alone.”

“You are very welcome, Herbert,” said the host, with pleasant familiarity.  “Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home.”

The cottage contained two rooms.  One was used as a bedchamber, the other as a sitting room.  On the walls were a few pictures, and on a small bookcase against one side of the room were some twenty-five books.  There was an easel and an unfinished picture in one corner, and a small collection of ordinary furniture.

“You are probably an artist,” suggested Melville.

“Yes, you have hit it.  I use both pen and pencil,” and he mentioned a name known to Melville as that of a popular magazine writer.

I do not propose to give his real name, but we will know him as Robert Falkland.

“I am familiar with your name, Mr. Falkland,” said Melville, “but I did not expect to find you here.”

“Probably not,” answered Falkland.  “I left the haunts of civilization unexpectedly, some months ago, and even my publishers don’t know where I am.”

“In search of health?” queried Melville.

“Not exactly.  I did, however, feel in need of a change.  I had been running in a rut, and wanted to get out of it, so I left my lodgings in New York and bought a ticket to St. Louis; arrived there, I determined to come farther.  So here I have been, living in communion with nature, seeing scarcely anybody, enjoying myself, on the whole, but sometimes longing to see a new face.”

“And you have built this cottage?”

“No; I bought it of its former occupant, but have done something towards furnishing it; so that it has become characteristic of me and my tastes.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Three months; but my stay is drawing to a close.”

“How is that?”

“Business that will not be put off calls me back to New York.  In fact, I had appointed to-morrow for my departure.”

Melville and Herbert exchanged a glance.  It was evident that the same thought was in the mind of each.

“Mr. Falkland,” said George Melville, “I have a proposal to make to you.”

The artist eyed him in some surprise.

“Go on,” he said.

“I will buy this cottage of you, if you are willing.”

Falkland smiled.

“This seems providential,” he said.  “We artists and men of letters are apt to be short of money, and I confess I was pondering whether my credit was good with anybody for a hundred dollars to pay my expenses East.  Once arrived there, there are plenty of publishers who will make me advances on future work.”