A Picture--The Lawyer's Note--Mr. Hardwill once more--The Scene at the Law Office--Mr. Flint Hors du Combat--Face to Face. 

 

"Mortimer!" That was all Daisy said. The candles were lighted, the dim, sad twilight driven out of the room, and a happy trio sat around the supper table. Mrs. Snarle smoothed her silk apron complacently; Daisy's eyes and smiles were full of silent happiness; and Mortimer, in watching the variations of her face, all so charming, forgot the misfortunes which had so recently threatened him. Daisy gave Mortimer an account of the unknown's strange visit; and, inexplicable to himself, Mortimer connected it in some way with his unexpected release. Soon after Mrs. Snarle had retired, the lovers sat in the little room, which was only lighted by a pleasant fire in the grate. Wavering fingers of flame drew grotesque pictures on the papered walls; then a thin puff of smoke would break the enchantment, and the fire-light tracery fled into the shadows of the room. It was a delicate picture. Mortimer was sitting at Daisy's feet, playing with the fingers of a very diminutive and dainty hand; Daisy was bending over him; and as the glow from the fire came and went in their eyes, one could see that a long brown tress of Daisy's hair rested on Mortimer's. What if their lips touched? "O!" cried Daisy, drawing back, "a note was left here this afternoon, while you were in----" "The Tombs," finished Mortimer, smiling. "Yes," replied Daisy. "I was afraid to open it, though." "Were you?" "Yes," she said, laughing. "I thought it might be from that charming young lady whom you assisted to cross Broadway last month; and of whom you speak so pleasantly when I am the least bit out of humor." And the girl looked at him quizzically with her impudent eyes. Mortimer, by kneeling close to the fire, was enabled to read the note. "That is strange--read it, Daisy." Daisy read:

 

    "SIR,--By calling at my office, No. ---- Wall-street, to-morrow, at 4 P. M., you will learn something of importance. It is necessary that Mrs. Snarle and her daughter should accompany you. "Respectfully, "J. C. BURBANK, "Attorney at Law."

 

About the same hour that evening, Mr. Flint received a communication of similar import, after reading which, he said: "Hum!" and thrust the note into his vest-pocket. Hum, indeed, Mr. Flint. There was something in store for you. The next morning Mortimer bethought himself of his "Romance," and directed his steps toward the sanctum of Mr. Hardwill. He found that gentleman talking with three new geniuses in pantelets, who were attempting to convince the great Pub of his mistake in refusing to "bring out" a pregnant-looking manuscript which the authoress was holding in her hand with a tenderness that was touching to behold. When they had retired, Mr. Hardwill extended his hand to Mortimer. "Sharp young man," he said, displaying his white teeth. "You didn't wish to appear anxious about your book; I was on the point of sending for you. You were to have called on me three days since. Well, sir, I like the story." Mortimer bowed. "Did you read it all, sir?" "I? Not a line of it," returned Mr. Hardwill. "I never look at anything but the size of the manuscript." "Then you buy by the weight," said Mortimer, smiling. "Not precisely. I never publish anything of less than four hundred pages. As to weight, I sometimes find a MS. of the right size altogether too heavy; but yours is not, my reader says." "Your reader, sir?" "Yes, I am a mere business man," quoth Mr. Hardwill, explanatorily. "I seldom read my publications. I merely sell them--sometimes I don't do that. I have a reader who looks over sizeable MSS., and I abide by his judgment." "Ah!" "He is a man of fine scholarship and literary attainments." Mr. Hardwill might have added--"and has the sway of 'The Morning Rabid' and 'The Evening Twilight,'" but he did not. Arrangements were made to publish "Goldwood," with the euphonious and "striking title" of "Picklebeet Papers." Now, whether "Picklebeet" was a vegetable in vinegar, or the name of some charming country-place, I cannot say; but "Picklebeet," whatever it was, had as much to do with the contents of the book as the biography of my reader's grandmother. On what terms the "Picklebeet Papers" were published, concern neither the reader nor myself; but, while remarking, en passant, that the book, owing to some extraordinary freak on the part of the public, never went to a "second edition," we will fix the hands of the city clock to suit ourselves. It is 4 P. M. Without further preamble, we will lead the reader (mine, not Mr. Ha............