On the second floor there was a small room with windows looking out into
a narrow lane behind the house. It was a singularly quiet room; the door
opened and shut without sound or vibration; double windows insured
immunity from the harrowing cries of such enterprising merchants as
exercised their lungs and callings in the narrow lane beneath. A certain
sense of ease and comfort imperceptibly crept over the senses of persons
entering this tiny apartment. It must have been in the atmosphere; for
some rooms more luxuriously furnished are without it. It certainly does
not lie in the furniture--this imperceptible sense of companionship; it
does not lurk in the curtains. Some mansions know it, and many cottages.
It is even to be met with in the tiny cabin of a coasting vessel.

This diminutive room, despite its lack of sunlight, was such as one
might wish to sit in. A broad low table stood in the middle of the
floor, and on it lay the mellow light of a shaded lamp. At this table
two men were seated opposite to each other. One was writing, slowly and
easily, the other was idling with the calm restfulness of a man who has
never worked very hard. He was rolling his pencil up to the top of his
blotting-pad, and allowing it to come down again in accordance with the
rules of gravity.

This was Mr. Bodery's habit when thoughtful; and after all, there was no
great harm in it. Mr. Bodery was editor and proprietor of the
_Beacon_. The amusing and somewhat satirical article which appeared
weekly under the heading of "Light" was penned by the chubby hand at
that moment engaged with the pencil.

Mr. Morgan, sub-editor, was even stouter than his chief. Laughter was
his most prominent characteristic. He laughed over "Light" when in its
embryo state, he laughed when the _Beacon_ sold out at six o'clock