"At any rate, there ought to be something to come to me from the rights
of translation--I saw in the paper that the book was to be translated
into French and German," said Augusta, faintly.

"Oh! yes, no doubt--Eustace, oblige me by touching the bell."

The young gentleman did so, and a tall, melancholy-looking clerk
appeared.

"No. 18," snarled Mr. Meeson, in the tone of peculiar amiability that he
reserved for his employee's, "make out the translation account of
'Jemima's Vow,' and fill up a cheque of balance due to the author."

No. 18 vanished like a thin, unhappy ghost, and Mr. Meeson once more
addressed the girl before him. "If you want money, Miss Smithers," he
said, "you had better write us another book. I am not going to deny that
your work is good work--a little too deep, and not quite orthodox enough,
perhaps; but still good. I tested it myself, when it came to hand--which
is a thing I don't often do--and saw it was good selling quality, and you
see I didn't make a mistake. I believe 'Jemima's Vow' will sell twenty
thousand without stopping--here's the account."

As he spoke the spectre-like clerk put down a neatly-ruled bit of paper
and an unsigned cheque on the desk before his employer, and then smiled a
shadowy smile and vanished.

Mr. Meeson glanced through the account, signed the cheque, and handed
it, together with the account to Augusta, who proceeded to read it. It
ran thus:--