interrupted him.

"Well, then, that is settled. Shall we say this day week? That will give
you time to make your plans."

With a few words of thanks Christian left the room. Vaguely and
mechanically he wandered upstairs to his own particular den. It was a
disappointing little chamber. The chaos one expects to find on the desk
of a literary man was lacking here. No papers lay on the table in
artistic disorder. The presiding genius of the room was
method--clear-headed, practical method. The walls were hidden by shelves
of books, from the last half-hysterical production of some vain woman to
the single-volume work of a man's lifetime. Many of the former were
uncut, the latter bore signs of having been read and studied. The
companionship of these silent friends brought peace and contentment to
the young man's spirit. He sat wearily down, and, leaning his chin upon
his folded arms, he thought. Gradually there came into his mind pictures
of the fair open country, of rolling hills and quiet valleys, of quiet
lanes and running waters. A sudden yearning to breathe God's pure air
took possession of his faculties. Mr. Bodery had gained the day. In the
room below Mr. Morgan wrote on in his easy, comfortable manner. The
editor was still thoughtfully playing with his pencil. The sharp little
boy was standing on his head in the passage. At last Mr. Bodery rose
from his chair and began his preparations for leaving. As he brushed his
hat he looked towards his companion and said:

"That young fellow is worth you and me rolled into one."

"I recognised that fact some years ago," replied the sub-editor, wiping
his pen on his coat. "It is humiliating, but true. Ha, ha!"