Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. "I don't know whether Miss Thorne
will go down or not," she said to herself. "It's probably a
book-agent."

She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would
happen if she did not go down. There was no sound from the
parlour save a subdued clearing of the throat. "He's getting
ready to speak his piece," she thought, "and he might as well do
it now as to wait for me."

Though she loathed Mr. Carl Winfield and his errand, whatever it
might prove to be, she stopped before her mirror long enough to
give a pat or two to her rebellious hair. On the way down she
determined to be dignified, icy, and crushing.

A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as she
entered the room. "Miss Thorne?" he inquired.

"Yes--please sit down. I am very sorry that my maid should have
been so inhospitable." It was not what she had meant to say.

"Oh, that's all right," he replied, easily; "I quite enjoyed it.
I must ask your pardon for coming to you in this abrupt way, but
Carlton gave me a letter to you, and I've lost it." Carlton was
the managing editor, and vague expectations of a summons to the
office came into Ruth's mind.

"I'm on The Herald," he went on; "that is, I was, until my eyes
gave out, and then they didn't want me any more. Newspapers can't