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“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,

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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

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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.

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

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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

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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. Hardwill's) to Mr. Burbank's law
office, at which place the threads of our story become
somewhat disentangled. We are not sorry at

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this, (we doubt if the reader is,) for there is a satisfaction
in rounding off a plot—in coming to the last
page, where the author can write “Finis”—which no
one but a scribbler may know. But this pleasure
is not a little touched with regret, as he sweeps
the carefully-moved images from the chess-board of
his brain, and tells you in those five letters that
the game is finished.

The personages in the law office are not strangers
to us, if we except the lawyer.

Mrs. Snarle and Daisy, with their veils down, are
sitting in the back part of the room, and Mortimer
stands behind them, speaking in a low voice
to Daisy.

Edward Walters is seated at a desk, the screen
around which prevents him from being observed by
the first-described group.

Mr. Burbank, a dark-eyed, large-mouthed man, occupies
a table in the centre of the apartment, near
which is a chair for Mr. Flint, who has not yet made
his appearance.

This was the position of the parties on Mr. Flint's
entrance.

The merchant gave the lawyer three bony fingers,
bestowed a stiff, surprised bow on Mortimer, and
glanced suspiciously around him, evidently not liking
the company he was in.

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Mr. Flint glanced inquiringly at the lawyer.

“As all the parties concerned in this meeting
are present,” commenced the devotee of Blackstone,
“I will at once proceed to business. You are too
much of a business man, Mr. Flint, to require a prelude
to interrogations which will explain themselves.”

Mr. Flint looked very doubtful.

The lawyer ran his fingers through a crop of
shaggy hair with professional dignity.

“It is something over twenty years since your brother,
Henry Flint, died, is it not?”

The merchant nodded.

“He left no heirs — I believe,” continued the
lawyer, with a delightful appearance of hesitation.

“He left one child,” said Flint, nervously. Mr.
Flint did not like the turn which the conversation
was taking.

“Ah, yes! A daughter, if I remember correctly.
Let me see, Maude Flint was the name.”

(This slight dialogue caused Daisy's breath to
come and go quickly.)

“Maude Flint!” she whispered hastily to Mortimer.
“Listen! M. F.,—the initials in the necklace!”

“I drew up the will at the time,” said Mr. Burbank,
thoughtfully; “but my memory has been tasked
with more important things.”

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He turned abruptly to Mr. Flint.

“What became of this child—Maude?”

“Died,” returned Flint, briefly, with an uncomfortable
air.

“And the property —?”

“Came to me—the child having no other relative,”
said Flint, rallying.

The lawyer was silent for a moment.

“Now, Mr. Flint, suppose I should tell you that
your brother's child is still living, what would you
say?”

“I should say, sir,” cried the startled merchant,
springing to his feet, “I should say, sir, that it was a
lie! I see through it all. This is a miserable conspiracy
to force money from me. Your plot, sir, is
transparent, and I see that snaky individual crawling
at the bottom of it.” He pointed at Mortimer.
“But it won't do!” he thundered, “it won't do!”

“Of course it won't for you to get in a passion.
The man who gets into a passion,” continued Mr.
Burbank, philosophically, “never acts with judgment.
And what is the use, Mr. Flint? I am acquainted
with all the circumstances of the child's disappearance;
indeed, I have a full account of them in
your own handwriting.”

Mr. Flint turned white.

“This letter, which I shall give you by and by,”

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said the man of law, “divulges a plot of villainy
which heaven happily thought fit to prostrate; and I'll
prove the truth of what I say.”

And the lawyer motioned for Daisy to approach
him.

She did so, mechanically.

“This lady,” said Mr. Burbank, smiling blandly,
“is my first witness. Will you raise your veil?”

Daisy complied with the request, and looked Mr.
Flint in the face. Flint turned his eyes on her with
such earnestness that she shrunk back. Then he
staggered to a chair, and exclaimed involuntarily:

“So help me God, it is Henry's child!”

Edward Walters rested his hands on the desk, and
looked over the baize screen.

Mortimer stepped to Daisy's side.

“This necklace,” he said, in a trembling voice,
“I return to the owner. It was my misfortune
to take it by mistake, and it is happiness to return
it to one who does not require any proof of
my innocence.”

Daisy pressed his hand.

“Let me go!” exclaimed Mr. Flint.

“Presently, Mr. Flint. You must first witness
the denouement of our little drama.”

With this the lawyer turned to Mortimer, and
handed him a paper.

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“What this fails to explain relative to your
father, you must seek from his own lips.”

“My father!—his lips!”—repeated Mortimer, bewildered.

He opened the paper.

“My father! where is he?”

“Mortimer!” cried Walters, pushing aside the
screen.

And they stood face to face.

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